


Once Upon a Time with Her Divine Highness…

by juurensha



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Humor, Ballroom Dancing, Banter, Don't copy to another site, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Happy Ending, Her Divine Highness Gideon, Matchmaking, Mistaken Identity, Slow Burn, Tsundere Harrowhark, spoilers for harrow the ninth - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25982809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juurensha/pseuds/juurensha
Summary: While taking a break (nothiding out) from the ball to find Her Divine Highness a spouse, Harrow meets a red-haired guard wearing sunglasses and slacking off from her duties. On the other hand, Gideon meets the Reverend Daughter of Drearbruh and suddenly has a reason to dance at the ball.
Relationships: Alecto & Gideon Nav, Camilla Hect & Gideon Nav, Camilla Hect/Palamedes Sextus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Harrowhark Nanagesimus & Palamedes Sextus, John Gaius | Necrolord Prime & Gideon Nav
Comments: 101
Kudos: 369





	1. Harrowhark: The Ball

**Author's Note:**

> So how could I resist canonical AU's from Harrow the Ninth??? I loved the necromantic royal ball, and I really wish we could have seen more of it in the book, so I ended up writing my own (although in this case, I've tried to make it less of a dream world and more of a semi-plausible AU). This was betaed by the lovely [bittermoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittermoons/pseuds/bittermoons), and hope you enjoy!

She wasn’t retreating, Harrow told herself firmly as she stole onto a small balcony hidden in an alcove of the grand ballroom. The Ninth House never backed down; she was just—regrouping, that was all.

(The whirl of colors and people and smells and lights had already been a lot even before the more faded Third House twin had come cozying up, sneering at her shabby, mended dress and rusted diadem and torque.

She had taken solace in the fact that at least she didn’t look like a faded copy of someone else and had simply kept up her best answering icy sneer, and that had worked until the brilliantly sparkling, golden twin came bounding over, all wreathed in smiles and wanting to  _ talk. _

She had to get away after that.

It wasn’t as if she was  _ hiding _ —she was simply standing here so she could gather her thoughts and think how best to appeal to Her Divine Highness on how to better the Ninth House without revealing the decrepit state of her house or coming off as trying to present herself as a viable spousal candidate.

Which shouldn’t be too hard, because honestly, Aiglamene was right.

Unless Her Divine Highness is a brilliant necromancer who also specializes in bones—which she has never heard tell of, and if she was, Harrowhark would still be better—she doubts that she holds much appeal for her, especially given the gorgeous array of people in attendance at this ball.

Not that it matters—that’s not why she’s here.)

There’s a  _ fwip  _ sound, and Harrow turns around to see what looks like some kind of white cloth dangling on the ground behind her. She frowns as she looks up, and her eyes widen as she sees some tall, muscular figure using what looks like a rope made out of bedsheets to scale down from a window high above to the balcony that she is standing on.

(What in the world—

A thief?

What thief would  _ dare  _ to break into the First House?

No—based on the person’s physique and use of a bedsheet ladder of all things—possibly a member of the Emperor’s personal guard or a wayward house cavalier?

Maybe they are trying to sneak into the ball?

Well, that’s unacceptable; no one should be skulking around about this place.

Also, they’re going to give away her hideaway.)

She takes out one of the bone chips in the curve of her ear, and before the miscreant has even noticed her, she’s formed up a towering bone construct that grabs the person from the ridiculous bedsheet ladder and sets them down in front of her.

It turns out to be a girl, perhaps a little older than herself, with dark skin and short red hair and sunglasses on despite the dark, with her hand on the hilt of an absolutely massive greatsword on her back. Upon seeing her, however, the girl stills and stares at her.

Harrow simply quirks up a disdainful eyebrow. “Are you simply attempting to abandon your duties, or are you attempting to badly creep your way into the ball?”

The girl’s eyebrows raise as she says, “Creep my way into—yeah no, uh—the first? Definitely the first.”

Harrow looks down her nose at her, and up close, she can now see a pearlescent, shimmering cloth of First House colors tied haphazardly around the girl’s neck.

(So—probably a member of the Emperor’s personal guard than, rather than a lazy house cavalier.

Far be it from her to question God himself, but—his attention must be distracted by finding his daughter a spouse if his personal guard even dares actions like this.

Still—attacking a member of the Emperor’s retinue probably wouldn’t do her or the Ninth House any favors.)

She begrudgingly loosens the hands of her construct, sending it lumbering back to her side. The guard stands up easily, her broad back flexing as she swings her muscular arms around, peering curiously at her construct and then back at her.

“You should return to your post before your absence is discovered and the wrath of your superior befalls on you,” Harrow says haughtily, her hands itching to pull down her pinned-up veil. Even through the dark sunglasses, she can feel the guard’s gaze rake over her face.

Instead of obediently obeying like any Ninth House thrall, the guard grins crookedly instead. “While my minder is a terrifying soul who strikes horror into all souls including mine at times, I’m willing to take the risk. Black clothes, face-paint, bones, bones, and more bones—You’re Ninth House, aren’t you? …Harrow, was it?”

Harrow draws herself up to her full height (how  _ dare  _ someone she doesn’t even know call her so familiarly) “ _ I _ am The Reverend Daughter of Drearburh, heir to the Ninth House and the long line of guardians of the Locked Tomb, Harrowhark Nonagesimus.”

The guard snaps her fingers, “Right, that. Bit of a mouthful though, isn’t it? Suits you, don’t get me wrong—you’ve got the black vestal, shadow cultist thing down  _ cold _ . Hey—if you’re busy hiding here being mysterious, do you mind letting your construct fight me? Its hands look like swords, it’s really cool.”

“I am not  _ hiding _ here,” Harrow lies with great dignity, inwardly seething. “And you should return to your duties before my construct throws you off the balcony—”

She hears Aiglamene’s familiar, lopsided step, and before she can even think, she’s already dissolved her bone construct while shoving the miscreant guard forward. When she doesn’t move an inch (she must be made of solid muscle), Harrow simply ducks and hides behind her bulk.

“My lady, pardon my bluntness, but even Ortus is out there mingling around, and your absence won’t do our cause any good, especially since I believe Ortus is now attempting a poetry battle against the Seventh House primary cavalier—oh, my apologies, I thought my—charge was here.”

“No worries, just keeping guard in case of rebel assassins dropping down from the rafters you know,” the guard says cheerfully, not giving her away. “Darn those perfidious assholes.”

There’s a pause, and even without looking, Harrow knows that Aiglamene is raising her eyebrows. “…indeed. Well—carry on and—if you happen to see the Reverend Daughter, please let her know that her primary cavalier is about to recite his poetry.”

As Aiglamene clomps away, Harrow lets out a held breath and looks up to meet the guard’s mirrored gaze.

Despite the sunglasses covering up her eyes, she looks very amused.

“I did not require your help,” Harrow says frostily.

The guard’s eyebrows go up. “Well—you’re  _ welcome.  _ And you’re such a hypocrite—you’re totally skivving off too!”

“I am not  _ skivving _ ,” Harrow says, giving the word all the incredulity and distaste it requires, “I am simply—taking in a breath of fresh air.”

The guard’s mouth twists in a way that makes obvious how little she’s buying Harrow’s story.

“And avoiding my cavalier’s epic poetry recitation,” Harrow continues doggedly on.

(Aiglamene is overreacting, the worst damage Ortus can cause is sheer boredom she’s sure.

After all, she’s heard his  _ Noniad  _ enough times to even be able to recite most of it—to her horror—and she’s more or less fine, and who knows, maybe the Seventh House will find something picturesque in its sheer length if not its actual contents.)

The guard grimaces, “Yeah, that sounds like a drag. Still—don’t you want to try and attract Her Divine Highness?”

“ _ I  _ did not come here to prance and preen like some popinjay to attempt to attract Her Divine Highness’ regard,” Harrow says coldly.

The guard chuckles, glancing into the ballroom, “Yeah, they are a bit like birds right now, aren’t they? Fun to watch—and so sparkly, but actually being in the midst of it would be exhausting. Although in that case, why  _ are  _ you here?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Harrow snaps. 

The guard sighs and leans back against the wall, “Come  _ on,  _ Reverend Daughter—you’re stuck on a balcony with nowhere to go, and you won’t even let me fight your construct a bit. It’s either we sit here in dreary awkward silence—which, have enough of that at family dinners, thanks—or we make some conversation. Besides, you never know, maybe I could help you.”

Harrow looks more closely at her.

(Her clothes, while plain, do seem to be of  _ very  _ fine make. They certainly put her mended and patched dress to shame—and could even perhaps stand up to the Fifth House’s finery. So perhaps she is—a high-ranked member of the Emperor’s personal guard? She doesn’t look that much older than herself, but her biceps are  _ enormous _ , so maybe it all balances out.

She doesn’t need allies—she’s run the entire Ninth House since she was ten, so of course she can manage all this herself.

But—if that were true, she wouldn’t be here seeking help for the Ninth.

For the sake of her House, she can lower herself to seek aid.

And perhaps—this is a member of the Emperor’s personal household, surely she holds some insight on how best to appeal to Her Divine Highness for aid.)

“…my House grows old as its blood grows thin, and I would ask Her Divine Highness to intercede on our behalf,” Harrow says, picking her words carefully (it wouldn’t do to let  _ anyone  _ know of how extremely dire her House’s circumstances really were after all).

“Huh. Why not just ask for general imperial aid then?”

“And have the Fifth or Third Houses take over? I think not,” Harrow snaps, her hands clenching in the voluminous sleeves of her dress. “As long as I draw a single breath, I will not allow the colorful flags of another house to fly above Drearbruh. The Ninth and its secrets shall ever be its own, and the Tomb will be guarded and kept safe by those who respect and honor it, not some spirit magicians or God forbid,  _ flesh  _ magicians.”

“No go on, tell me how you really feel,” the guard chuckles then tilts her head. “You love your House that much?”

(Love is not the word for it.

The future of her House was sacrificed to produce her, and she cannot bear to let all 200 and more of those lives go to waste.

Not that anything she could do—even if she somehow managed to beg Her Divine Highness to renew her House and made it greater than it ever was and justified its existence in the eyes of God the Emperor—even if she made her whole life a monument to those who died to ensure she would live and live powerfully—even then she’d be an abomination that the whole universe out to scream at whenever her feet touched the ground.

_ Nothing  _ would make their sacrifice for her worth it.

It made no difference—and yet, she still had to try.

She didn’t know not how to try—even when her own parents had finally succumbed to their own guilt and fear and killed themselves in the end—still she figured out how to raise their bodies and puppeteer their skeletons about.

She’s not even good at dying—so the least she can do is try to see the Ninth House into glory again, even if she has to lower herself to beg at the feet of Her Divine Highness.)

“Death first to vultures and scavengers and those who would forsake their oaths,” Harrow says finally, meeting the guard’s gaze squarely.

“…nearly everything you say is so ominous, it’s amazing,” the guard says admiringly, grinning at her for some reason. “Your devotion to your house is—admirable. You don’t see that very often.”

“We are the  _ Ninth _ , not the Third,” Harrow says with a slight sniff.

The guard shrugs, “Oh, I don’t know. The Third’s not so bad sometimes—their primary cavalier is annoying as  _ fuck  _ to fight, but you know, there’s some primo eye candy all over there, so it kind of balances out. A little. Sometimes.”

Harrow gives her a very unimpressed look. “Is that why you wanted to sneak into the ball? To go stare at some members of the Third House?”

“Not at all. I very much want to be  _ lightyears _ away from the ball,” the guard says fervently. “If the ball was necromancy lessons—if the ball was having to give up my two-hander—if the ball was Mercy, and I was Augustine, it  _ still _ doesn’t cover how little I want to be at the ball. Why do you think I made a ladder out of  _ bedsheets  _ to get away?”

“Dramatic much?” Harrow asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Says the black vestal who formed a cool giant skeleton construct to grab me,” the guard points out, arching an eyebrow right back.

Harrow shrugs delicately. “What else did you expect from a black vestal?”

“Bones for sure,” the guard replies promptly. “Didn’t expect them to be  _ so cool  _ though—and you’re chattier than I thought a nun of the Locked Tomb would be.”

“So sorry to disappoint,” she sneers (why should that hurt? It doesn’t—obviously it doesn’t).

“It’s not a bad thing!” the guard hastens to say. “I’m—this isn’t exactly how I planned the evening on going, but—it hasn’t been too bad so far?”

(She sounds genuine.

It doesn’t make up for her slacking off from her duties, but—

So far the guard doesn’t seem—terrible.

She was by far better company than all the necromancers and cavaliers and House attendants inside, anyway.)

“Although you know what would make it better? A fight—”

“I am  _ not  _ creating a construct for you to fight just because you think its arms look like swords,” Harrow says, barely refraining from rolling her eyes.

“You absolutely  _ sure  _ you don’t want to bring up your construct again to fight me?” the guard wheedles. “Doesn’t have to be as gigantic as before if you’ve run out of juice—”

“I’m never out of  _ juice _ ,” Harrow snaps, then makes a face as the guard sniggers. “Stop your puerile snickering—although I could very easily raise the construct again, how do you suggest you fight it on this balcony without attracting outside attention?”

The guard cracks her neck and swings her arms back a bit. “It’d be a challenge, that’s true—I don’t think you want to be caught any more than I do though, so it could count as a test of your ability as well?”

Harrow raises an eyebrow, “Are you challenging me?”

“What? Don’t tell me the Ninth House is all talk, it’ll crush all my childhood dreams,” the guard says with a grin.

(She knows she’s being baited, and yet—

And yet she’s tempted.

After all, the one thing she  _ knows _ she’s good at is raising constructs and fighting with them.

But—if she’s going to risk doing something rash in the First House, then she wants something in return.)

“I will fight you— _ if  _ you tell me how to best appeal to and gain Her Divine Highness’ aid,” Harrow finally says.

The guard chuckles. “Oh that? That’s easy—she’s a sucker for helping people anyway. And let me tell you—fighting me? That will  _ definitely  _ get you on her good side. Her Divine Highness  _ loves  _ a good fight.”

Harrow frowns (…that doesn’t sound quite right). “Her Divine Highness is the blessing to our Kindly Prince, the Necrosaint Prime, the Emperor in the long years of his immortal life, and is his greatest, most cherished treasure—and you’re saying she loves a good fight?”

“Oh yeah, being coddled is boring, and it’s not like she gets to fight—see new people fight that often,” the guard says eagerly. “So—you in?”

(She could be lying—and she is far too blithe about Her Divine Highness, but Harrow doesn’t sense any guile from her on this.

Time to show her what the Ninth House is made of.)

“Prepare yourself,” she says portentously as her hulking construct once again rises by her side, and she specifically sharpens its hands to look more like swords.

An absolutely savage grin streaks across the guard’s face as she takes the broadsword off her back and licks her lips. “Let’s dance, Reverend Daughter.”

The guard is  _ fast,  _ not even bothering to take off her ridiculous sunglasses before rushing forward and swinging around her massive broadsword as though it’s nothing, and meeting her construct’s strike with a blow from her sword that would have shattered its arm to pieces if she hadn’t specifically reinforced it to try and deaden the sound.

As it is, it still cleaves into the bone, and Harrow sends the construct’s other arm grasping after her, while sharpening it into hooks to better nab her, but the guard just twists out of the way and kicks off from her construct and used the resulting momentum to wrench her sword up for another strike—

“There you are.”

The guard skids to a halt, and Harrow turns around to see a dark-haired woman with golden eyes who is so inhumanely beautiful that it veers into nearly  _ uncanny _ .

The guard frowns, not bothering to put her sword away. “Oh come on, A.L—okay, yeah I know I’m skipping the ball, but come on look—giant skeleton!”

The woman glances at Harrow’s construct, blinks once, then turns back to the guard. “Gideon, it’s time.”

(Gideon?

….wasn’t Her Divine Highness’ name—

Oh no.

Oh  _ no. _

This was  _ not  _ good.)

“But—uh—” the guard—Gideon (no, Her Divine Highness—should she grovel now? Protocol would suggest that she should, but on the other hand, how would she have been able to tell that this slovenly, viciously fast, surprisingly easy to talk to girl was the  _ Emperor’s one and only child? _ ) shoots a slightly apologetic look at her, lowering the sunglasses down her nose to reveal her equally golden eyes (was this woman Her Divine Highness’  _ mother?  _ Besides the eyes they didn’t look anything alike—and she had called her A.L.—). “I’m… busy socializing with the Ninth House?”

The woman gives Her Divine Highness nearly the same blank look Harrow is shooting at her. “Are you now.”

“Yeah! And we’re having a really great time—really getting to know each other and everything—inter-house relations at its finest,” Her Divine Highness babbles on. “So much diplomacy and—and cultural exchange going on here.”

“…through fighting a bone construct,” the woman says flatly.

“It was my idea!” Her Divine Highness quickly interjects before Harrow can even begin to panic. “I wanted to—see the Ninth House’s mastery of bone magic up close and personal.”

“…well, if that’s the case, then you won’t mind leading the Reverend Daughter in the first dance of the evening.”

“Uh—yeah! Sure!”

“What,” Harrow says flatly.

“If you’re okay with it, I mean!” Her Divine Highness says reassuringly, turning back to her, and biting her lip.

(…Her Divine Highness was asking  _ her  _ to dance the first dance of the ball with her?

She hadn’t even bothered to  _ imagine  _ that happening—she and Aiglamene hadn’t even bothered  _ discussing  _ what would happen if Her Divine Highness happened to take an interest in her—she had only learned the ballroom dances so as not to embarrass herself in the off-chance she’d have to dance with her cavalier—

And—what exactly are Her Divine Highness’ intentions here?

Does it really matter though—this is the Emperor’s only child asking, and what other choice does she have?)

“…how could I possibly say no,” Harrow says tonelessly, attempting to smile.

Her Divine Highness for some reason frowns at that, then turns back to the woman. “Hey, A.L., can you give us a sec?”

The woman doesn’t move, just crossing her arms.

“I’m not going to run away—I swear on my sword,” Her Divine Highness says, patting the sword that she has set back on her back. “Come on—even if you don’t trust me, surely you can trust the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House?”

While Harrow feels personally like that statement should be laughed at with all the derision it deserves ( _ Harrow  _ wouldn’t trust the Ninth House with anything that wasn’t Ninth House business), but for some reason that appears to convince the woman, who gives her an unsettling glance with her golden eyes before nodding, turning, and walking away.

“Sorry about that,” Her Divine Highness sighs. “A.L. is—A.L.”

“…is she Your Highness’ guard?” Harrow tentatively asks.

“She’s supposed to be my father’s bodyguard, but she’s pretty much my minder too, yeah,” Her Divine Highness shrugs. “Mostly she’s terrifying—but anyway—I know it’s a lot to ask since I know you’re not here for that, but would you mind dancing the first dance of the ball with me?”

“I already gave Your Highness my answer,” Harrow points out carefully.

Her Divine Highness frowns. “That wasn’t really an answer—also stop calling me ‘Your Highness,’ I keep thinking my father is behind me. Just call me Gideon.”

(The fact that Her Divine Highness has a name as banal as  _ Gideon  _ does nothing to make Harrow actually want to say it.)

“If you don’t want to dance with me, you can just tell me,” Her Divine Highness continues sincerely. “I know that—I kind of let you think I was someone else but—I don’t want to come off as some kind of creep.”

“You’re not a creep,” Harrow says before she can stop herself. “I mean—of course you couldn’t possibly be…”

“…because I’m the Emperor’s daughter?” Her Divine Highness lets out a mirthless laugh and runs a frustrated hand through her red hair. “You’ll find that the First House is—probably not what you think it is.”

(Well, she neither knows what that means, nor does she know what to say to that.

But—she does sound genuine about not wanting to force her to dance if she doesn’t want to.

The problem is—Harrow isn’t even sure if she wants to dance with her or not.

On one hand, it was obviously a great honor and a chance to further talk to Her Divine Highness about lending aid to the Ninth House.

And—she didn’t seem creepy—and she could even perhaps feel if her biceps were as enormous as they looked—

Not that she is having  _ any  _ impure thoughts about  _ anyone _ , much less Her Divine Highness, Harrow is a black vestal after all.)

“…you were quite persistent in trying to get a fight with my construct, yet you’ll take no for an answer for a dance?” she asks, stalling for time.

“That was different,” Her Divine Highness immediately argues, “You obviously like giant bones—hahaha, although I didn’t mean  _ like that _ —and it was a fun fight, right?”

“…it was acceptable,” Harrow allows.

(If they did it again, she’d need to reinforce her construct’s arms right off the bat, but perhaps lighten the legs a bit for speed—

But she’s not going to get a chance to fight Her Divine Highness again, so why is she making plans like that.

At the very least—they could have a different sort of dance, and Harrow could continue talking to her there. )

“You can make up for its brevity by allowing me the honor of the first dance, I suppose,” Harrow says finally.

Her Divine Highness smiles at her crookedly, looking genuinely happy at the idea. “You won’t regret it, I swear! And yeah, the duel was short, I guess. Still—maybe after the ball—no wait. Hang on. ….I have a brilliant idea.”

Harrow doesn’t say anything, but perhaps she can’t keep her misgivings off her face because Her Divine Highness huffs and says, “Look, the duel was a cool idea, alright?”

“It led your minder straight to us,” Harrow points out.

“She would  _ definitely  _ have found me sooner or later on the balcony—that’s why I was trying to get away further. But not the point—hear me out,” Her Divine Highness says, holding up a hand. “Thank you for the first dance—otherwise I’d probably be crowded by suitors, but what do you say to making it a little bit longer than that?”

Harrow narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Her Divine Highness shifts in place a bit. “Like—what if we say that we’ve fallen ass over tea-kettle for each other and that we’re so deeply in love that I’ve already picked who I’m going to be engaged to?”

Harrow is fairly sure that if her eyes widen any further they’re going to fall out of their sockets. “…with me. That you would be engaged to  _ me _ ?”

“Fake engaged!” Her Divine Highness corrects her, making a hushing sound and gesturing in the direction A.L. had left in. “Just long enough for me to get all the Cohort paperwork in order and ship out, and then you’ll never have to worry about it again!”

(It is unfortunate that Her Divine Highness has apparently taken  _ complete leave of her senses _ .)

“You are joking,” Harrow says flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. “No one will believe it.”

“Hey, I can definitely act besotted, and I’m sure you can too, if the fate of your house is on the line,” Her Divine Highness points out.

Harrow goes cold. “…you would refuse aid to the Ninth House unless I did this for you?”

“No!” Her Divine Highness scrambles to say, “That isn’t what I meant at all—look, no matter what, I promise to do what I can for the Ninth House, alright? I’ll send you guys what you need—I’ll even ask Gideon the First to go oversee it after this ball.”

Harrow relaxes slightly. “…you would do that—just because I asked?”

“Because I see your devotion to your house, and that should be rewarded,” Her Divine Highness replies, her molten gold eyes holding her own.

(She suddenly feels awfully warm.

The planet of the First House has strange variations in temperature—it really is nothing like home.)

“Then—why do you need a fake fiancée?” she asks. “There is a ballroom of people inside clamoring to marry you—”

“They want to marry Her Divine Highness, not me,” Her Divine Highness grimaces. “And anyway, I don’t want to be married. I want to go fight in the Cohort.”

“…Can’t you?”

“No—father doesn’t want to allow it, and A.L. is watching me like a hawk,” Her Divine Highness explains. “But if I were  _ engaged  _ all of a sudden—well, for ambiance’s sake, A.L.  _ couldn’t  _ keep that close of a watch on me. And if I happen to slip away while visiting my lovely fiancée dark home—who would really know?”

“Leaving me trying to explain Your Highness’ absence when inevitably someone comes calling,” Harrow points out.

“…that won’t be for awhile, I’m sure, and I’ll leave a recording of myself absolving you of all blame and annulling our engagement if you want,” Her Divine Highness says. “Also, I thought I told you already—it’s Gideon.”

“Gideon,” Harrow says somewhat unwillingly, weighing the syllables in her mouth (it has heft—it is not hard to say now that she has actually said it out loud). “This appears to be a ridiculous plan.”

“But it’s a plan that might  _ work _ ,” Gideon says, “It’s perfect—I can help you with getting more resources for the Ninth, and  _ you  _ can make sure that I don’t have to keep fending off suitors. And when the time goes to split, no one can say that you could have stopped me from running out to the frontlines.”

(She can think of some things the other Houses might say about how the frontlines were obviously more appealing than being married to the Ninth House, but by then—

But by then her house would have all the resources it needs, and what does she care for what other Houses might think of her then?

And there are worse things than pretending to be in love with someone who already understands her devotion to her house.)

“Come  _ on,  _ gloom mistress. My pretend-devotion to you will be as big as a mountain, penumbral lady. I’ll be your avowed fiancée, night boss,” Gideon pleads with her.

“What are you even  _ saying, _ ” Harrow says with feeling. “If you really go through with this plan—it will be entirely platonic outside of what we will need to show to convince others of this farce, are we clear?”

Gideon beams at her, “Entirely, my tenebrous overlord.”

“ _ And stop calling me that _ ,” Harrow snaps.

(Pretend to be in love when she’s never had any experience in that and when the subject is Her Divine Highness.

Well—Gideon is easy on the eyes, at least, and doesn’t appear to be a bore.

It’s certainly more enjoyable than she had thought the ball was going to be.)

Gideon just grins, then nods and holds out a hand, “Then we have a deal, Reverend Daughter.”

Harrow takes in a deep breath, schools her features, and intones, “A deal then, Your Divine Highness,” and clasps her hand in her own.

Gideon’s grin goes crooked at her light touch, then raises her hand up to her face and—kisses it.

“Let’s get this party started then, shall we?” she asks, her golden eyes dancing as she leads her into the ball.

(Her heart feels as though it’s in her throat the entire time, but Gideon is a steady, unflappable presence at her side, chatting on, and leaning in to laugh with her when the glares of the other Houses grow pointed.

They whirl together in a flurry of black under the crystalline lights and Aiglamene’s and Ortus’ astonished gazes, Gideon’s hand a warm brand at the small of her back, and she thinks—

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

She doesn’t believe in fairytales, but this—this is pretty nice.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think? Did you like Harrow mistaking Gideon for a guard? Did you enjoy their banter? Did they feel in-character given their different backgrounds in this universe (I tied myself up in knots trying to figure out what Gideon's background would be in this universe, and how that would change her. More of her life in the First House will explored in her chapter next chapter!)? Did you like A.L./Alecto showing up? (If Alecto is here, who is locked up in the Tomb? I have definite ideas on that, although we'll see if they're explored in Gideon's chapter--although suffice to say, since Gideon was never on the Ninth in this universe, Harrow never opened the Tomb either, and her parents killed themselves through sheer guilt later than in canon) Did you like the lines I took from the actual book? (The paragraph about justifying her existence and the dialogue with gloom mistress hahaha) How do you think their fake engagement will go? Do you think it will stay fake? (Spoilers: No way). Please leave comments/kudos!


	2. Gideon: Fake Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon gets to know her fake-fiancee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, originally I was going to try to make this fic just a two-parter, but the second chapter just grew MASSIVELY, so I decided to split it into two, so now there will be three chapters! This was beta-ed by the lovely bittermoons, and hope you enjoy!

“…well, you sure know how to pick them,” Camilla comments, gesturing over to where Palamedes and Harrowhark are busily discussing regenerating ash, theorems, and other nerdy necromancer stuff.

Gideon scowls (she might fall asleep during necromantic theorems, but if Harrow wants to go giddy over number crunching and bones, she will fully support her with all the bones). “Hey, it’s not too late—I could suddenly change my mind and decide that I actually want to marry Palamedes, you know.”

Camilla’s face stiffens, and she gives her a look that would quell any lesser mortals who hadn’t been watched over by A.L. since childhood. “Try it.”

Gideon holds up her hands. “Joking, joking, you  _ know  _ I’m joking—even if you wouldn’t immediately murder me, or Palamedes immediately find some weird loophole that gets him out of it and coincidentally brings him closer to the Seventh House—uh, but I’m not supposed to mention that, am I?”

Camilla just gives her a flat look. “It’s fine,” she says, her tone as hard as the steel knives she’s busy sharpening.

“Right, sure,” Gideon nods, trying to make sure her face doesn’t show any sympathy.

(Camilla would take it as pity.

She really likes Camilla—there’s no one who is a better non-necromancer sparring partner besides A.L., who is, of course, in a league of her own, and you could always count on Camilla to know what to do and to see things clearly.

Except in the case of Palamedes.

She’d try to give Camilla a push, except she’s pretty sure Camilla would stab her.)

Camilla grimaces as though she can tell what Gideon is thinking and says, “Focus on wooing your Ninth House fiancée instead of worrying about us.”

“She’s really something, isn’t she,” Gideon says with a grin, catching Harrowhark’s eye for a second.

(Really her original plan had been to run off to a shuttle towards the Cohort while her father and A.L. were busy with the ball, and hopefully she’d already be enlisted by the time they figured out where she had run off to.

Instead—she had run into the Reverend Daughter of Drearbruh who couldn’t have been any more stereotypically Ninth if she had tried, from her pitch black gown, rusted crown and diadem, the delicate paint on her face, the bone studs in her ears, and of course, the giant bone construct at her side.

The bone construct had made her stay, but Harrow’s sheer devotion to her house had—touched her.

Not, like, inappropriately—hehe—but still, for her, who had seen so many of her father’s Lyctors so jaded, who had had so many scions of the high houses scurrying around and sucking up to her for further power, whose entire existence depended upon her father’s good graces—

Well, it was nice to meet someone who really believed in helping her own House.

And—a fiancée who not only was a scion of a noble house, but could also create cool bone constructs, was snarky as hell, really didn’t want to join the First House for sheer status, and wasn’t all that bad-looking?

It was a no-brainer.

And you know—weirdly, hanging around a black vestal was kind of fun?

Like she wouldn’t have expected it, not that she knew much about the Ninth House besides the fact that they had a Tomb with someone locked inside that her father wouldn’t speak of, and that they all wore black and were very into bones.

But Harrow—

They end up bickering half the time they talk, but it’s kind of fun needling her and getting her into a huff and talking passionately about what the Ninth House needs and how Gideon could better leverage her own unique position in the First House and her knowledge of all of its inhabitants or even just about necromantic theorems.

If Mercy could see Gideon obediently listening to Harrow rattle on about necromantic theorems that she used to practically throw herself out of the window to avoid, Mercy would probably murder both of them.)

Harrowhark blinks, looking somewhat taken aback at Gideon’s held gaze, and her lips slightly part before she frowns at something Palamedes says and goes back to tearing into his theory.

“They’re going to be awhile,” Camilla notes. “You done mooning so we can start sparring?”

“Hey, I just got engaged, I’m totally allowed to moon all I like over my awesome shadowrealm fiancée,” Gideon says, holding a hand to her chest.

“Do you even listen to the words coming out of your mouth,” Camilla says despairingly as Harrowhark takes time out of dissecting the theorem to glare at Gideon.

“Griddle, if you call me something like that again, I’ll lace your breakfast with bone meal and punch my way out of your stomach,” Harrowhark says threateningly.

“But then you’ll be deprived of my muscles and my witty repartee,” Gideon winks at her.

Even through the chalky face-paint, Gideon can tell that Harrowhark is flushing.

(And that’s always a fun thought that keeps her up at night—what does Harrow look like under all that face-paint? The least amount she’s seen her wear was the night of the ball, and even then, it had covered her entire face. It seems as though she has delicate and somewhat sharp features though, and Gideon specifically looked up Ninth House wedding ceremonies and was delighted to find out that there was a washing-off of paint to reveal the face part.

….not that they’ll get that far since it’s a fake engagement and all, and she’ll be off to the Cohort as fast as she can, but—

Still, it was nice to dream.)

“It’ll be worth it to no longer have you giving Ortus ideas,” Harrowhark continues on doggedly.

Gideon scratches her head, “Oh man, Ortus…how many volumes of the Noniad did you say he wrote again?”

“Twelve,” Harrowhark says witheringly. “Each longer than the rest. Whenever he stupidly manages to get killed by the Seventh House’s cavalier, my House will probably be unable to use his skeleton to tend the fields because it will  _ still  _ be scribbling away.”

Gideon laughs. “The horror. Speaking of your House—where’s Aiglamene? I really want to train with her again.”

“Don’t you have a sparring partner right there?” Harrowhark nods at Camilla. “Or are you tired and wish to beat up an octogenarian instead?”

Gideon snorts. “That octogenarian handed me my ass  _ twice  _ when I went to ask her about the Cohort and she offered to show me some moves. Besides—age is just a number, look at A.L.”

“As much as I respect Aiglamene, I would not dare compare my house’s retainer to your immortal minder,” Harrowhark says dryly.

(A.L. is—

If the Lyctors are a mystery, and Gideon’s father is a mystery wrapped in an enigma and tied together with a seemingly nice, harmless smile, then A.L is a mystery wrapped in an enigma baked in secrets and then given claws and fangs to run around with.

For all that she contributed to Gideon’s genetic makeup, she has never acted particularly fond of her—not that really, A.L seems all that fond of anyone, even her father.

There’s not a single relationship in the First House that isn’t weird, complicated, and twisted—courtesy of everyone having been alive for ten thousand years, she supposes.

Gideon can’t  _ wait  _ until she can leave and run off to the Cohort, where things will just boil down to conquering planets instead of trying to untangle that mess.)

“She was busy trying to whip Ortus into something resembling a shape since his mother isn’t hovering over us,” Harrowhark continues. “You’re welcome to step into that, if you like.”

“Pass,” Gideon says instantly. “No offense, but it’s just sad watching Ortus fight.”

“You’re telling me,” Harrowhark grumbles to herself before waving a hand dismissively at her. “Go on, have fun with your swords.”

“We’ll leave you necromancers and your noodly arms be, dread mistress,” Gideon says, bowing smartly at her.

“Bone marrow in your  _ soup _ ,” Harrowhark mutters ominously before turning up her nose and pointedly turning back to Palamedes.

Gideon sighs as the two of them walk off towards the training grounds. “She’s so mean—and for some reason that’s really hot?”

Camilla gives a fixed look at her knives as though contemplating using them on herself.

“Don’t give me that—you have no room to talk, you actually think Palamedes droning on about psychometry is endearing or some shit,” Gideon points out.

“And I think you’ve absorbed more about necromantic theorems in the month you’ve been engaged than in the entire time you were stuck with us on the Sixth,” Camilla fires back.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Gideon cheerfully admits, unsheathing her sword.

Camilla sighs as she takes her stance. “…well, far be it from me to advise Her Divine Highness, but I sure as hell hope the Reverend Daughter knows what she’s getting into.”

(She’s managed so far to shield Harrow from most of the Lyctors—of course she had already met Gideon’s father, but her father seemed more or less content with Gideon going along with his plan and not trying to run away for once and had welcomed Harrow with aplomb.

And of course she’d already met A.L. and gotten—not exactly approval, but no opposition either, which probably counted as the same thing when A.L. was concerned.

Harrow had even earned a grunt of approval from Gideon the First when he had seen her bone constructs, so surprisingly, they had gotten past the hurdle of earning the approval from all the people who had contributed genetic material and/or breathed life into Gideon.

Still—it’s already a mess, and she doesn’t want to drag Harrow into any more of the immortal Lyctor drama than she has to.

If they were really going to get married, then Gideon would probably need to sit her down and attempt to draw her a chart of how Augustine and Mercy despised each other, but they kind of sometimes bonded together with her father—in somewhat gross ways she wasn’t going to think about—Cytherea was always flitting here and there, seemingly getting along with everyone. Gideon the First always did his duty and tended to sort of get along with A.L., and pretty much everyone was terrified of A.L.

Not even getting into who had slept with who and when—

But that was all besides the point since they weren’t really going to be getting married, and Gideon needs to remember that and do a few more sit-ups in preparation for joining the Cohort.)

“…your head isn’t here, we’re not doing this,” Camilla says within a few strikes, somersaulting back and sheathing her knives.

“What? No! Come on, Cam—you know Harrow and Palamedes are going to be jawing away about bones for forever, and I need to be in fighting form when I get to the Cohort!” Gideon begs.

“You’re still planning on shipping out with the Cohort? What, are you going to do that right after you get married?” Camilla asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh—well yeah! No time like the present right? It’s not like I’m getting any younger,” Gideon argues.

“You’re still a teenager,” Camilla points out flatly. “And your fiancée is fine with that?”

Gideon schools her features into what she hopes is a beatific expression. “She’s very understanding.”

“….hm,” Camilla says noncommittedly, shifting a bit in place.

“…it’ll obviously be after the honeymoon!” Gideon improvises. “The long, blissful, bone-filled bangathon that will take place on the Ninth.”

“I will pay you good money for you to say ‘bangathon’ to the Reverend Daughter’s face,” Camilla says thoughtfully.

“Oh, I have, she sicced five skeletons on me,” Gideon says cheerfully, happy that Camilla seemed to have been thrown off-track.

(Still—maybe they need even more of a distraction—the Sixth can get very persistent about digging into things that they feel aren’t quite right.)

\--

“We may need to distract Cam and Palamedes a bit,” she announces to Harrowhark in her private quarters.

Harrowhark’s head jerks up as her dark eyes narrow. “…why? Should I not have called you Griddle?”

“No, I love your pet name for me,” Gideon grins back even as Harrowhark’s eyes do their best to roll out of their sockets. “It’s just—they’re maybe side-eyeing the idea that I’ll be going off to the Cohort right after marrying you?”

“You  _ told  _ them about running off to join the Cohort?” Harrowhark demands.

“Well, you know, it kind of slipped out—and I could make a dirty joke there, but I won’t because you’re leveling a dark mistress of murder glare at me,” Gideon holds up her hands. “I know them pretty well, okay? And they haven’t been clued into anything yet because I guess we’re the  _ best  _ fake fiancées to ever fake engage, but—they’re Sixth House. The Master Warden can’t help but dig, it’s part of his nerdy, necromantic little soul.”

Harrowhark shakes her head, looking slightly more exasperated now rather than murderous. “The Sixth House is nearly as shut off as the Ninth, how did you ever get to know them that well?”

“A.L. decided to hare off to the Sixth for some reason when I was like 13, so of course she had to bring me along. Palamedes had just become Master Warden, and Cam his Hand. I accidentally bumped into them when wandering around the Archives looking for A.L., and Cam  _ kicked my dagger back at me _ , and then did a  _ backwards handspring  _ going down the stairs,” Gideon recounts rapturously, still remembering Camilla’s fluid lethal grace.

A tiny furrow appears in Harrowhark’s brow. “…why were you even carrying a dagger around in the Archives?”

“They wouldn’t let me bring in my sword,” Gideon shrugs, nodding over to where her greatsword is propped against the wall. “Anyway, it was the start of a beautiful friendship—except now they care enough to dig, so we need a plan.”

“You could try renouncing all thoughts of going to the Cohort in front of them,” Harrowhark suggests.

Gideon shakes her head, “Won’t work, that would just make them  _ more  _ suspicious. It’s been my lifelong dream to go off to the Cohort, so giving it up would look weird no matter how in love I am—supposed to be.”

Harrowhark’s mouth tightens as she looks away. “…well, that makes sense. Maybe—you could say that the additional aid you’re giving the Ninth requires you to go visit the Cohort for some time?”

“There’d be paperwork for that, and Cam and Palamedes are sharks after blood for a paper trail,” Gideon points out. “No, you know what I think might work—try to set the two of them up.”

Harrowhark gives her a flat look. “…isn’t Palamedes pining after the Duchess of Rhodes?”

“Yeah well, she already rejected him, so it’s time Palamedes moved on.”

“And I was under the impression that the Sixth House has a limited gene pool, and that Camilla is some kind of cousin to the Master Warden,” Harrowhark says delicately.

“Second cousins, but it’s not like they have to have kids per se,” Gideon says bracingly.

“…and I do not contrive to know these things, but I thought Palamedes regarded Camilla as a sister.”

“Yeah, that’s a killer,” Gideon sighs, leaning back against the wall.

“Would it help if the Duchess of Rhodes were—not longer around?” Harrowhark drawls.

Gideon immediately sits up straight. “No murder! Dulcinea is nice!” she scolds quickly.

Harrowhark looks put-out., “Of course you would say that. Well then, I’m not sure what you expect me to do,” she complains.

“Have you never read a romance novel before?” Gideon demands.

“No,” Harrowhark shrugs.

“Ugh, so I guess we have to start from scratch,” Gideon sighs. “…lock them in a closet together?”

“They’ll get out in under a minute with all that stuff Camilla is carrying around,” Harrow says immediately. “And even if they didn’t—what’s that supposed to do anyway?”

“Maybe Cam would decide to confess all her feelings if stuck with Palamedes in close quarters for a long period of time?” Gideon says with hope she doesn’t actually feel.

Harrowhark snorts, “She’s been stuck with him this long already on the Sixth and hasn’t said anything, that will not work.”

“…what if we decorated one of the vaults with, like, fairy lights, rose petals, and cute shit like that?” Gideon suggests. “Get the ambiance all right, and also A.L. made those vaults to  _ last _ , so they won’t be able to break out that easily.”

“They’ll probably spend most of their time trying to break out instead of enjoying whatever ambiance you set up though,” Harrowhark points out.

(That sadly does sound like Palamedes and Cam.

And also—if Cam isn’t distracted by suddenly having her feeling returned by her giant crush, she’ll probably be intent on stabbing Gideon and then Harrowhark, so she needs a foolproof plan in place, because she’d rather not have her fiancée murdered by the Sixth House, thank you.)

“We could—go ask the Fifth House for ideas because I’m pretty sure they do a ton of matchmaking—”

“ _ We  _ are not going to ask the  _ Fifth House _ for anything,” Harrowhark draws herself up to her full diminutive height. “The key here is making Palamedes see Camilla in a different light, correct?”

“Yeah?”

“…maybe if you got someone else to pursue her romantically, Palamedes would see sense?” Harrowhark suggests.

“…that is very sneaky and therefore very Ninth, and it sounds good, but then we’d probably have to keep the suitor from also getting stabbed by Camilla,” Gideon says worriedly.

“We could tell her to play along for a bit. And if the suitor is a necromancer, that probably wouldn’t be an issue,” Harrowhark says, examining her nails. “Even better if they’re immortal.”

“Oh no,” Gideon says, her stomach sinking a bit. “Tell me you’re not thinking of one of the Lyctors—or God forbid, my  _ father _ .”

Harrowhark’s eyes widen in scandalization, “God would never deign to do such things!”

(Her father deigns to  _ do  _ a lot more Lyctors than Gideon really wants to know about, but she’ll preserve Harrow’s cloistered-nun mind from that.)

“But one of the  _ Lyctors _ ?” Gideon’s face twists unhappily. “…Mercymorn would rather kill all of us, good luck even  _ finding  _ Gideon the First—he went to oversee the renovations on the Ninth, but then he went off again somewhere, and I’m not even sure if he can make it back for our wedding. Augustine might do it, but he for sure will have some creepy ulterior motives for doing so, and Cytherea—I guess she  _ might  _ do it.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re actually having a wedding, so maybe it’s for the best the Saint of Duty can’t make it back so quickly,” Harrowhark points out. “The Saint from the Seventh House—well, it does have a certain ironic echo to have a Seventh House woman courting Camilla.”

“Yeah,” Gideon echoes, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest.

(Of course they’re not going to have a wedding, that was the entire  _ point  _ of the plan.

After all, what would she do if she was actually married to Harrow?

Run around the Ninth trying to fight skeletons?

It might be fun for like a month—maybe three months, if Harrow really figures out how to do regenerating ash—but after that, she’d probably get bored.

She probably wouldn’t be bored though if Harrow and her were really together though—

Annnnd that’s a dangerous train of thought to go down, so she needs to shut that down  _ now. _ )

“Yeah, I guess—I could ask her? Worst Cytherea will do is say no—she was surprisingly chill about me having a crush on her as a kid,” Gideon shrugs.

Harrowhark’s eyes narrow. “…actually, I’m sure we can manage without her. What if we just make up a secret admirer by sending notes and flowers and—and whatever else secret admirers are supposed to give to Camilla?”

(…was Harrow jealous?

No—no way, right?

She’s probably just—realizing that the logistics of getting a Lyctor to cooperate with this kind of thing is kind of complicated?

Gideon shudders to think what a mess Cytherea could potentially make if she for some reason really wanted to.

Still—something to keep in mind.

Something to watch for.

She has zero idea about what she’s going to  _ do  _ with proof that Harrow might be jealous for her, but—

She’d still like to know.)

“Like—write notes ourselves in disguised handwriting?” Gideon asks, placing a hand on her chin. “…I like it, but I wonder if the Sixth will try to run some kind of handwriting analysis on the whole thing…”

“I can get a bone construct to write it,” Harrow says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“And I guess I can try to dictate something,” Gideon adds with a grin. “See, you do have the makings of a romance writer after all!”

Harrow gives her a disgusted glance before pulling out a jar of face-paint. “Please never utter those words in that combination in my presence ever again. Also—you need to practice doing your face-paint.”

“Aw, really?” Gideon whines, kicking her heels. “Isn’t it just for the announcement of our engagement? Can’t you just do it for me?”

“At the announcement you will have to do it yourself, and it will reflect badly upon me if you do it sloppily,” Harrowhark says severely.

Gideon sighs as she takes the jar from Harrowhark and screws it open to stare gloomily at the greasy stuff. “…it makes me break out,” she complains, sticking a finger in and beginning to slather it on her face. “Won’t it look worse for you to have a fiancée whose forehead looks like some kind of volcanic eruption?”

“No one will see it if you put it on properly,” Harrowhark replies, frowning as she watches her. “You’re not—you have to press it out smoothly—give me that,” she says in exasperation taking the jar away from her and dabbing her own fingers inside. “I honestly don’t understand—you’re like Matthias Nonius come again with your broadsword, but you can’t even put on some paint properly…”

“You really think I’m like Matthias Nonius come again?” Gideon asks breathlessly, half because that is an  _ awesome  _ comparison, and half because Harrowhark’s cold fingers are gently running across the planes of her face.

“Don’t tell Ortus I said that,” Harrowhark says dryly, spreading the white greasy paint across her entire face. “He might write another volume in sheer outrage.”

“He may do so anyway; last I heard, Aiglamene was trying to drag him away from whatever masterpiece he thinks will finally show up Protesilaus,” Gideon quips.

“Lift your chin up,” Harrowhark says, tilting Gideon’s head up to work across her chin and her lips (kissing would probably taste kind of gross with all this face paint on, but Gideon is pretty sure she wouldn’t mind all that much if a certain Reverend Daughter decided to lean in right now—

No, bad Gideon, down Gideon!

Think of the Cohort, Gideon!

Think of doing like a hundred pull-ups in a row to a standing ovation!

Think of your father getting a letter with Cohort commendations and being forced to say that it looks like you could use a sword after all, and A.L. actually maybe smiling!

Just don’t think about the way Harrowhark’s fingers feel against your skin and the way that her own painted face is close enough to just lean forward and kiss—)

Harrowhark looks back, looking at her critically as she takes out a jar of black face-paint. “…we need to make you look authoritative, but you probably need a more simple pattern, just so you can remember how to do it.”

“Why not the one you wore at the ball?” Gideon croaks out, “That one looked nice.”

“The Chain is an extremely delicate pattern that takes about an hour to apply,” Harrowhark says tartly, starting to smudge Gideon’s nose. “I practiced for months in the mirror before I got it right.”

“…you practiced that much even though you didn’t want to marry me?” Gideon asks curiously.

Harrowhark pauses, then goes back to work, jabbing her under the eye. “I still had to maintain the image of the Ninth House! And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to marry  _ you _ , per say, it was—it was—”

“You not wanting to marry Her Divine Highness, huh?” Gideon finishes for her as Harrowhark’s fingers still.

She smiles up at Harrowhark. “Does that mean you wouldn’t mind marrying plain old Gideon though?” she asks, half-teasingly, half…something else.

Harrowhark purses her lips as she averts her eyes. “Don’t smile, you idiot, you’re going to smear the paint before it sets!”

“Oh is that why you Ninth House adepts never smile? God, that explains so much,” Gideon says, pulling an exaggerated mopey expression on her face.

Harrowhark jabs a finger into her neck, “Stop messing up my hard work. Also, were you even paying attention? Do you think you could do this yourself?”

Gideon examines herself in the mirror, “…I look like a douche.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Harrowhark snaps. “That is just your natural personality shining through.”

“But I’m pretty sure no matter how you applied it, I would in this stuff, so thanks,” Gideon continues and grins at her again. “I think I can make sure not to embarrass you on your home turf.”

Harrowhark blinks and then just nods, “See that you do.”

“What, not going to make me take it all off and test me again?”

“I only have so much face-paint, and it needs to last until I go back home,” Harrowhark says stiffly.

“The great thing about being Her Divine Highness’ fiancée is that you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing,” Gideon winks at her. “You want face paint? I’ll order them to bring you enough face paint to bathe in tomorrow.”

“…thank you,” Harrowhark says before saying more quietly, “…plain old Gideon—isn’t that bad.”

(And even though those words are so simple—that just warms her up even further.

Harrowhark could care less about Her Divine Highness—ever since she met her, she’s pretty much only ever seen  _ Gideon _ , minus a tiny bit of awkwardness at first at the reveal that she wasn’t a slacker guard after all, but a slacker princess.

She could care less about trying to worm her way into the First House, now that the Ninth House has been guaranteed all the resources it needs, so—

She can’t help but wonder what it would be like to offer her, her hand in marriage for real.

…yeah, she has it bad, that’s not super good.

Like even beyond her Cohort plans—does the Cohort even take actual married people, she isn’t sure, she’ll have to check, it isn’t something she’s had to worry about before—there’s also—

Would Harrow be  _ willing  _ to marry her for real?

They haven’t known each other for that long, really—and then she’d really be part of the First House, and that could be a whole mess—or maybe Gideon could run off and just join the Ninth House?

Probably not, her father would have A.L. hauling her back in no time.

And—even though she’s pretty sure she’s caught Harrow staring at her arms or watching her while sparring, Harrow is as serious as the grave, so would she really want someone like Gideon for something actually real?

That’s a depressing thought.

Maybe—maybe she should just focus on the Cohort plan for now. And if Harrow shows even a smidgeon of actual interest—

She’ll figure it out then.

After all, like Mercymorn was always complaining, she was the slacker disappointment princess, so she might as well live up to her reputation.)

\--

The fake letters and flowers she and Harrow put together are met with a blank stare from Camilla and an inscrutable look from Palamedes. Gideon feels as though Palamedes isn’t reacting at all the way a jealous possible-lover should act, but Harrowhark surprisingly takes a more positive view of the matter.

“He’s spending a lot of time examining all the fake gifts and making inquiries,” Harrowhark says.

“That doesn’t really mean anything, that’s just what I would expect Palamedes to do,” Gideon points out, “If he didn’t investigate, I would think a body-snatcher got him.”

“What would you expect Palamedes in the throes of jealousy to act like?” Harrowhark asks, arching an eyebrow.

Gideon shrugs, “I don’t know—in novels and stuff there’s a lot of glaring and yelling and impassioned declarations of love under moonlight duels?”

Harrowhark gives her a flat look, “…I have not known the Master Warden as long as you, but I cannot imagine Palamedes doing any of that. Also, your novels are trashy, and everyone on the covers seems to have a shortage of clothing.”

“That’s what makes them fun!” Gideon leers before going back on topic. “Okay maybe no moonlight duels for Palamedes. I really wonder if his arms would fall off if he tried to lift up a sword, but—something. Something different at least.”

“Well, your primary purpose was a distraction, and that does seem to be working,” Harrowhark says, brushing her short dark hair out of her face. “It’s good that I worked all sorts of necromantic theorems over that letter—it’ll take Palamedes  _ weeks  _ to figure it out, hopefully.”

“Still, I also wanted to help Cam,” Gideon sighs.

Harrowhark slants a look at her, “…you were not joking about being a sucker who always wanted to help.”

“What can I say, I’ve got to prove myself somehow, right?” Gideon asks, a lopsided grin spreading across her face.

(After all, she’s not a necromancer, much to everyone’s disappointment.

At the very least, she can swing a sword around and use whatever privileges she has as Her Divine Highness of the First House for some good.)

An odd expression spreads across Harrow’s face as she dips her head down. “…the Ninth House will remember your boon to it in its most dire hour for as long as the Tomb still stays locked and the stone does not roll away,” she says formally.

Gideon feels her face heat up, “Oh, whoah, whoah, whoah—no need for vows on the Tomb, alright? Just—helping out where I can, you know?”

Harrowhark frowns. “Don’t diminish yourself like that, Gideon. It’s not worthy of the boon you have done to the Ninth House, the regard you have shown me, or yourself.”

(Well that’s—

Huh.

If she didn’t already know she was a goner over this terrifyingly competent bone adept, she would definitely be now.)

“…Alright,” Gideon agrees, her smile at her softening. “Anything for you, lightless commander.”

“Your nicknames are just getting worse and worse,” Harrowhark complains.

“You were the one who said to believe in myself!”

“To ‘not diminish yourself’, you certainly shouldn’t believe in yourself when it comes to making up epithets,” Harrowharks says with a sniff.

“Should I be calling you my beloved fiancée, soon-to-be wife instead?” Gideon asks lightly, catching her hand to land a kiss on the back of it while her heart thumps loudly.

Harrowhark freezes, staring at her hand and then at Gideon for a while, before jerking her hand from her grasp and saying in a clipped tone, “I have to—go check on something. Right now.”

“Something?” Gideon prompts bemusedly.

“…the fake gifts. For Camilla. To make sure Palamedes and her don’t figure it all out. Goodbye,” Harrowhark says abruptly before sweeping out of the room in a flurry of black and rattling bones.

(…that seemed somewhat promising?

Kind of sad that Harrow running away like a scalded cat counted as promising to her, but Gideon was going to take whatever she could get of the close-mouthed Reverend Daughter.

Although she—still had no idea what she’d  _ do  _ if Harrow actually kind of maybe also had some feelings towards her.

…could they both run off to the Cohort??? The Ninth House had some kind of weird special position there, didn’t they? True, it probably hadn’t been in use for centuries now, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen—)

“The preparations for you going to the Ninth have all been completed,” A.L. intones from the doorway.

Gideon’s head jerks up to see A.L. somehow already standing in the room. “Ah, well—thanks! I’ll just jaunt over there and say hello to the Reverend Mother and Father, tour the crypts and leek fields a bit, check out the Tomb, and you know, generally get to know the Ninth House!”

A.L. nods, still staring at her with her golden eyes.

(Sometimes Gideon wonders if people find it as unnerving to be stared at by her as she finds A.L.’s gaze upon her.)

“…will you miss me?” she asks feebly.

“We will be going to see the ceremony there in person,” A.L. responds simply.

“Wait, what?” Gideon leans forward (wait, this couldn’t be good…). “Uh—I thought we were waiting to do the whole marriage ceremony and everything at Mithraeum?”

“The First House ceremony, yes. But the Ninth House ceremony may as well be done at the Ninth House while you are there,” A.L. replies, unblinking.

(Oh shit.

Oh  _ shit _ —there goes her plan to jaunt off before actually getting married.

Well no—first step, Gideon, is not to panic.

Surely there’s some—other Ninth House ceremonies or something that Harrow will know to throw together to fool A.L. and everyone, right?

Although she guesses there’s still the rest of the Ninth House acolytes to worry about who would probably realize something isn’t quite right—not to even mention Harrow’s  _ parents _ …

Still, Harrow is smart, she’ll probably think of something.)

“Right.  _ Right _ . The ceremony! The dark, gothic, Ninth House ceremony that I definitely have been reading up on and that Harrow has definitely told me about,” Gideon says quickly. “I can’t wait for all of you to see it! …hey when you said all of you, does that include Dad too?”

“Your father vowed after sealing the Tomb never to return to the Ninth House ever again,” A.L. reminds her. “The Lyctors and I will be there in his stead.”

“Right,” Gideon says again, feeling a bit like a broken record. “Well—um—in case the ceremony—whichever one Harrow picks—needs a parent to send them off or something—would-would you mind doing that?”

A.L. blinks. “I am not your mother, Gideon.”

“Yeah, I know,” Gideon replies, scratching at her cheek (somehow, it stings every time she says that). “It’s just—you know you did give up some genes for me, so—and since dad isn’t there—maybe you could just—stand in? You did teach me how to fight after all.”

(It’s a feeble thing to say, she knows.

She only taught her to fight because Gideon didn’t have a lick of necromancy in her bones, but—but still.

Even if A.L. is creepy and weird and kind of terrifying, she’s also the only person who has always been at Gideon’s side.

Even if it was just on orders from Gideon’s father—A.L. has always protected her, stared down the other Lyctors with her unnerving gaze, and never been unkind to her about her not being a necromancer.

Even if maybe A.L. was just expressionlessly happy for some non-necromancer company in Mithraeum that was stuffed to the gills with skeletons and always refuted any statement that she was Gideon’s mother—Gideon is pathetically grateful towards her.)

A.L.’s face doesn’t change, but after a while, she does slowly nod. “I will do so.”

Gideon can’t help the grin that splits across her face, “Great! Um yeah, so—I’ll go inform Harrow that our impending nuptials are much more impending than we thought—and of course we’re super happy about that! Over the moon! Can’t wait for it at all!”

A.L. doesn’t make any response to that and simply sweeps out of the room.

Gideon waits a few minutes before also rushing out in search of Harrow.

(Surely Harrow knows how to fix this so A.L. can kind of be her parent at a wedding ceremony that’s actually fake and can fool all the assembled Lyctors and dread faithful of the Ninth.

And maybe—maybe also somehow still deepen their relationship?

It’s a tall order, but if anyone has a devious plan that might work, it’s Harrow for sure.)

\--

“…so yeah, that’s how it is,” Gideon finishes explaining, scratching the back of her head. “There has to be some kind of ceremony with a loophole or something, right? Something that can satisfy everyone there but also get both of us out of it?”

Harrowhark gives her a complicated glance. “…Ninth marriages are a vow until the grave.”

(Yeah, that wasn’t surprising.

But—instead of feeling panicked that her original plan was falling apart—

She feels a bit weirdly hopeful?

And a little sick at the idea that Harrow very well may laugh in her face, but—for better or worse, she is a member of the First House, and nothing ventured, nothing gained.)

“Maybe—maybe it’s okay if they do it for real?” she asks tentatively.

Harrowhark freezes, staring at her. “… _ what? _ ”

(Oh, that didn’t sound good.

Maybe this was a really bad idea after all.)

“I mean—well—it’d look bad if I just broke my engagement to you, right? Even if I did make a video absolving you of everything—so maybe we could just—but if you’re not cool with it, we can definitely try to think of something else,” Gideon stumbles to say.

Harrowhark has a strange expression on her face, the sharp lines of her face tense. “I—it’s not—it’s obviously a great honor that you would consider me so seriously, Your Highness—”

“Uh, what the hell is with ‘Your Highness,’?” Gideon interrupts, a sinking sensation in her chest. “Are you—you don’t think I’m trying to  _ force  _ you—”

“No,” Harrowhark says in clipped tones. “No, you wouldn’t do that. It’s just—marriage is a  _ vow _ , and—and are you sure you wish to tie yourself down like that, Gideon?”

(Definitely when her father had first come up with this great idea, Gideon had been terrified of being bound and shackled to someone for the rest of her days.

She just wanted to go _ fight _ , not be further enveloped in yet another web of House politics and maneuvering.

But now that the person she might be getting married to is Harrow—Ninth House Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus who can raise bone constructs that have arms like swords, frequently forgets to eat when tearing her way through the library of the First House, scowls like a nightmare and uses words like knives and yet whose tiny smiles Gideon would trade all the jewels she never wears and even her sword to see—

Well, given that she loved her broadsword enough to frigging marry it, that already said a lot didn’t it?

But just because she’s willing, doesn’t mean Harrowhark is, of course.

If she was, it’d really be the whirlwind romance that they’d been trying to sell.

Serves them right of course, karma was a bitch.

So—how to not weird out Harrow about all this?)

“…do  _ you  _ mind tying yourself down like that?” she asks instead, half to just buy herself some more time, and half because now she really does have a burning desire to know the answer to that question.

Harrowhark shrugs, her chin drawn up. “It is not as if there were many options in the Ninth. The only real option who isn’t already decrepit is Ortus, and that would intertwine the Ninth House necromancer and cavalier lines far too much.”

“Oh gross—not that I’m slamming your cavalier or anything, Ortus has—many fine qualities,” Gideon quickly says, “Um—I hear the Fifth House really likes his poetry?”

Harrowhark gives her a look. “That just makes it  _ worse _ .”

“Right, right,” Gideon says, scratching the back of her neck and looking around. “So um—at least I’m a better marriage prospect than Ortus, right?”

“Even the  _ Third House  _ would be a better prospect than Ortus,” Harrowhark intones, her voice frosty.

(Well ouch.

But—she rates above the Third House at least, right?)

“I fight better than Naberius, that little twerp,” she lists out. “I’m not a weird flesh magician constantly plotting to backstab you like Ianthe, and while I may not be as hot as Coronabeth, I feel like I’m a pretty close second?”

Harrowhark has an odd expression on her face, “…you don’t have to list out your advantages over the Third for me; I would never consider them over you.”

(Because she’s from the First?

It’s a sobering thought but—

But the simple fact of the matter is, no matter who she marries, that’s probably always going to be a factor, whether she likes it or not.

But Harrow isn’t really like that.

Besides—even after they’re married, she can still court Harrow, can’t she?

She doesn’t have to run off to the Cohort  _ right  _ away.

Or who knows, maybe Harrow could run off with her.)

“So—you’re saying yes to me?” Gideon asks shyly.

“I already said yes to you,” Harrowhark points out with a sniff.

“Yeah, but you said yes to a fake marriage not—not a real one?”

Harrowhark is silent for a bit, her face impassive but her eyes obviously doing some mental calculations.

“If you like—after the marriage—I mean, if you don’t want me around, I’ll be off to the Cohort pretty soon anyway?” Gideon suggests.

For some reason, that just makes Harrowhark’s face grow even more severe. “…not even staying for the honeymoon period, are you?”

“If you want a honeymoon, I’ll give you one. Or—you could run off to the Cohort with me if you want?” Gideon offers. “The Ninth already has all the resources it needs and after we’re married—I’m sure your parents can take care of things while you’re deployed?”

Harrowhark freezes still, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “That—may be somewhat difficult—”

“…because they won’t approve?” Gideon asks tentatively. “Well—maybe I could try talking to them—”

“It’s not that,” Harrowhark interrupts, jerking the edges of her hood. “It’s—there’s something you should probably know—before you decide to go through with this plan.”

“Wait—does that mean you’re okay with it? Marrying me for real?” Gideon asks probably too eagerly, a dumb grin stretching across her face.

Harrowhark shows no change in expression staring at her. “You will want to hear this first before you decide that.”

(Well that doesn’t sound ominous as fuck at all.

Still—if they’re baring dark secrets, she should probably clue her in on some of the First’s as well.)

“…I think I have some things I need to tell you about my family as well,” she says, offering up a small smile.

Harrowhark sweeps out of the room in a swish of black, “Then we will need a completely private place with a pool of salt water to immerse ourselves in.”

“Uh….well, okay, weird, but I think there’s a swimming pool somewhere in a wing no one goes into—will that work?” Gideon asks, jogging after her.

Harrowhark chews on her lip, “It’ll have to do.”

\--

“…then—you’ve been puppeteering your parents’ corpses for—”

“About five years now,” Harrowhark replies in clipped tones.

“But then—you were just like what,  _ twelve  _ when they—”

“Yes,” Harrowhark says, staring at her with her dark eyes, the face paint dripping down in streaks from the water.

“But you’re—your specialty is  _ bones _ , not  _ corpses _ —”

“They don’t look very good from the shoulder-down, I grant you,” Harrowhark says distantly. “But I am a genius, Griddle, and I have made do.”

(She certainly must have if none of the Ninth House faithful have ever suspected that their Reverend Mother and Father have actually been  _ dead  _ for  _ five fucking years  _ now.

Then again, apparently all of them had  _ also  _ bought the story that all the children and youth of the Ninth died in a virulent flu 17 years ago instead of realizing that it was said Reverend Mother and Father making a fucking  _ blood sacrifice  _ to get a turbo-charged super-necro baby.

Did her father know anything about all this?

Probably not—A.L. was right that her father steered completely free of the Ninth at all times.

But still—it was an abominable, evil, monstrous act.

An abominable, evil, monstrous act that had resulted in Harrow.

Harrow who even now staring at her with her dark eyes, so tense that it seems at any moment she is about to snap, breathing heavily and looking as though she expects Gideon to push her away—)

Gideon envelopes her in a hug, wrapping her arms tight around Harrow’s thin body, tucking her head directly below her chin.

Harrow jerks, her head knocking into Gideon’s chin, “What are you  _ doing _ —did you not  _ hear  _ me, Your Highness?”

“I heard you,” Gideon murmurs, “And it’s Gideon.”

“I am an  _ abomination, _ ” Harrow says urgently. “I am the 200 and more dead of the Ninth House. I am an act that even my parents in the end could not stand the sight of any longer. I  _ should not exist— _ ”

“But you do, and like  _ hell  _ I’m going to blame you for something your shitty parents did,” Gideon says angrily. “You want to know about  _ my  _ parents? Gideon the First sacrificed his beloved cavalier for lyctorhood, A.L. might be certifiably crazy, and my father—the only one of the bunch who even  _ deigns  _ to call himself my parent, has more secrets and blood on his hands than anyone else in this universe, and I have always been a fucking disappointment to him.”

“…you shouldn’t talk about God that way, and I can’t see how you would ever be a disappointment,” Harrowhark says finally, staring at her.

(…well shit, she’s definitely in love now.)

“The perks of being God’s kid is that you can talk smack about him,” Gideon says automatically, a helpless smile on her face. “And—well, you get that privilege too, if you don’t mind becoming his daughter-in-law.”

Harrowhark’s pale face twitches (it’s a face that can’t exactly be called pretty since it’s too sharp for that, but it’s—arresting, even if it is currently looking mildly in shock). “You can’t—you still—you still want me to marry you?”

“More than ever,” Gideon replies honestly.

Harrowhark shakes her head slowly, her face now completely scrunched up in confusion (it looks weirdly adorable). “You’re—something is not right with your head, Gideon.”

“See, that right there is why you’re the woman I have to marry,” Gideon says, dramatically pointing at her.

“Because I insult you to your face?” Harrowhark asks flatly.

“You’re not afraid of me at all—or even overawed by me.  _ Sometimes  _ I think you are appropriately awed by my hotness and broadsword skills though,” Gideon says with a wink before growing more serious. “I mean what I said before—your devotion to your House does you credit, you make some  _ mean  _ bone constructs, you’re really scary sometimes and that’s pretty hot—and I like being with you.”

With all the face paint washed off, she can now see the flush in Harrowhark’s cheeks as she ducks her head.

“I don’t care what your parents did,” Gideon continues, emboldened by actual color in Harrowhark’s cheeks. “Well I mean—I do care, it was heinous, but that doesn’t make  _ you  _ anything more than someone whose had to deal with their shit and has actually managed to rise above it all.”

“I will never escape it for as long as I live,” Harrowhark intones, a distant look in her eyes.

“…maybe so, but you don’t have to do it alone,” Gideon says, “So—what do you say? I need some support in the First House too you know—if A.L. doesn’t hunt me down for running off to the Cohort, Mercymorn will  _ definitely  _ lose her shit.”

“…you could do better, even for just pure support,” Harrowhark says begrudgingly, looking down.

“I really couldn’t.”

Harrowhark pauses for a long time before dipping her head once and whispering, “Al-alright.”

Gideon beams, knowing that her grin is now practically splitting her face in half. “One flesh, one end?”

“…that’s the cavalier vow,” Harrowhark points out.

Gideon shrugs, “It seems appropriate. After all, I’m not a necromancer, and it’s not like Ortus is going to help you out beyond carting bones around for you and maybe reciting some sad poetry.”

“…fair point. One flesh—one end,” Harrowhark repeats, her unsteady voice echoing in the empty chamber.

(And even though she’s all clammy and wet right now she also feels—so warm.

It’s not exactly a declaration of love, but—in another way it’s  _ more. _

Even if Harrow never quite sees her that way—she’s fine with that, as long as she still gets to be by her side.

Although it’s not like she would say  _ no, _ of course, if Harrow did suddenly succumb to her hotness and command her to take her to bed—she thinks sex with her would be  _ super hot _ —Harrow seems like the type who would be bossy in bed—but this is a train of thought she’d better stop before it gets uncomfortable.)

“You know—those vows could definitely be a sex joke too,” Gideon says thoughtfully.

Harrowhark specifically summons up a skeleton to dunk her head back into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you guys like Harrow and Gideon getting to know one another? Did you like them trying to pair up Cam and Pal? Did you like the remix of the pool scene from the actual book and the twists on what life is like with most of the Lyctors + A.L. there? (Gideon's parentage by the way is still a key point to this story, never fear. It will definitely be addressed next chapter) How do you think going to the Ninth will go? Next chapter is still Gideon's POV! Please leave comments/kudos!


	3. Gideon: The Tomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon goes to the Ninth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end! Hopefully you guys enjoyed it! And thank you again to the lovely bittermoons for beta-ing it!

Preparations for heading off to the Ninth run along quickly, and before Gideon knows it, she’s getting on a shuttle with Harrowhark with all her luggage, preparing for the next step in her life.

(Harrow is coming around to the idea of going to the Cohort for a bit after making sure everything in the Ninth is stabilized and leaving her old retainer in charge longer.

Gideon is also doing her damndest to do all her chin-ups where Harrow can see the muscles in her arms working, and she’s not entirely sure if she’s getting closer to her goal of making Harrow fall in love with her, but she’s certainly caught Harrow staring at her working out in a daze, so that had to count for something right?)

“Be careful out on the Ninth, and an early congratulations,” Camilla says, pushing a neat little gray square package over to her.

“Thanks!” Gideon says, hefting the package (it’s not all that heavy). “Should I open it now or later?”

“Later,” Camilla says, looking at it consideringly. “It has a great deal of medical supplies for when you inevitably get in trouble again.”

“Hey, I’ll be fine! I always recover pretty fast,” Gideon says.

Camilla shrugs. “And also lube and other such items for your wedding night.”

Gideon wills herself not to flush as red as her hair, “Uh—thanks? Although I didn’t think the Sixth made this kind of thing…”

“I took a pack specifically from our Nireids division, so it’s definitely the good stuff,” Camilla says languidly. “Although I considered giving you a giant Nireids guidebook instead considering the bone-headed stunt you tried to pull with my fake secret admirer.”

“Hehe, boneheaded—I mean, what secret admirer? Did you finally figure out who it was sending you all that stuff?” Gideon tries to innocently blink at Camilla.

Camilla just gives her a flat look. “You are not sneaky. Your fiancée is, which is why it took so long to figure out, but—well, I suppose it ended alright, so I won’t kick your ass.”

“You could  _ try  _ to kick my ass,” Gideon says reflexively before realizing what Camilla is saying, “Wait—does that mean you and Palamedes finally figured stuff out?”

“…he didn’t like the idea of me leaving,” Camilla admits quietly, looking over to where Palamedes is talking to Harrowhark, “We’ll work from there, I guess.”

“Does that mean you guys are going to bring us an  _ amazing  _ wedding gift?” Gideon teases.

“My gift to both of you will be making sure the Warden doesn’t go investigating the Tomb and somehow  _ opening  _ it,” Camilla says dryly.

“Yeah, that would be a bummer,” Gideon says, scratching the back of her head. “Imagine, Harrow and me are about to kiss to seal our vows—or even worse, about to consummate our marriage—and then wham,  _ bam _ , whatever is in the Tomb comes storming out. Would really not make a good first impression on the Ninth, and I feel like Harrow would be obligated to divorce me.”

“You see all I do for the sake of your future marital happiness,” Camilla says with a shrug. “I’ll keep him busy.”

“Ooooh, have  _ fun  _ with that,” Gideon says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

Camilla snorts, “Not like that. Or at least I’m pretty sure not.”

“Well, here’s hoping!” Gideon says, saluting her with her package. “Hey, do we get to be guests of honor at your guys’ wedding? I mean, I feel like Harrow and I should get some credit at least—”

“You better leave before your necromancer decides to strand you here all by yourself,” Camilla interrupts, turning heel and walking away, but Gideon thinks she saw Camilla’s mouth twitch up, so that was probably a good sign.

“Success, my midnight darling,” Gideon crows, walking into the shuttle with Harrowhark.

Harrowhark scrunches up her nose adorably. “I hate how you keep coming up with these inane nicknames. Success with what?”

“Plan Matchmake the Sixth seems to be bearing fruit!” Gideon says cheerfully. “Like tiny buds—itty bitty shoots that may eventually blossom into beautiful love.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Harrowhark says haughtily. “And I have no idea what you mean.”

“I feel like you should try tossing a bouquet at them during the wedding,” Gideon continues, sitting down.

Aiglamene coughs discreetly and says, “Pardon me, your Highness, but Ninth weddings do not have bouquets. Or flowers of any kind.”

“Do they have a bunch of bones or a skeleton to throw at someone?” Gideon asks hopefully. “Something to wish gothic luck on a future happy couple?”

“…If you really must have a bouquet, maybe we can create something out of the Noniad,” Harrowhark says maliciously.

Ortus clutches his sheets of flimsy to his chest, “My lady, you wouldn’t be so cruel as to desecrate my masterpiece.”

“Nah, not poetry,” Gideon says as Ortus shoots her a look of relief (Ortus is nearly useless as a cavalier, but he’s not that bad of a guy per se, and she could use some more friends on the Ninth). “Doesn’t give quite the right feel, I think…you sure we couldn’t just toss a skeleton at them and just tell them it’s a Ninth tradition?”

“Palamedes will probably want to know the origins of such a practice, and I do not feel like coming up with an intricate backstory just to satisfy him,” Harrowhark says, pursing her lips.

“Maybe  _ I  _ could just chuck a skeleton at them and say it’s a tradition I heard about somewhere,” Gideon says thoughtfully. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any skeletons you wouldn’t miss once I punt one at them and Camilla smashes it into smithereens?”

“…perhaps after the wedding is done, we can lend you some of the skeletons that have fallen apart beyond repair,” Harrowhark says, giving Aiglamene a look.

“Can you add some regenerating ash on it though? I feel like it’s not good luck to throw a skeleton beyond repair at a happy couple and wish them a happy future.”

Harrowhark levels her gaze at her, “They’re not a couple, and I am not sure punting a skeleton at  _ anyone  _ brings them luck.”

“Oh, I don’t know, you threw a skeleton at  _ me _ , and I think things have been going pretty well so far,” Gideon says with a cheeky grin.

Harrowhark’s cheeks look red even through the facepaint, which has to mean that Harrowhark is full on  _ blushing  _ right now.

(She hadn’t even known Harrow could do that.

She has to try it some more. Scientific process and all that, right?)

“You’re the one who wanted me to throw the skeleton at you!” Harrowhark protests as Aiglamene and Ortus exchange a look. “And then you chopped at it with your sword!”

“Yep, and it was obviously a great decision on my part,” Gideon says, nodding wisely. “We still need a rematch sometime—you up for it, Reverend Daughter?”

Harrowhark narrows her eyes at her as the spaceship takes off. “If you think you can adjust to Drearbruh’s surroundings so quickly, be my guest.”

“It’s just a bit of dark, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Gideon says dismissively, then notices the way Harrowhark’s hands are clenched in her lap. “Oh hey, where’s your pile of grave dirt?”

“I don’t need that,” Harrowhark says dismissively, her back ramrod straight as the ship leaves the atmosphere.

“Well…if you say so,” Gideon says, glancing over at Aiglamene who just shrugs and Ortus who is busy going through all his flimsy.

(If they go to the Cohort together, Harrow will need to get used to traveling in space without any thanergy around though.

She’s not sure if Harrow is practicing for that or just being as stubborn as usual but—

Well, they can talk things through after the wedding is done and Harrow has figured out what the situation on the Ninth is now.

It should be pretty good—Gideon the First isn’t the Saint of Duty for nothing after all.

And then—wives together in the Cohort?

It sounded pretty badass to Gideon.)

\--

Drearbruh had been—dark and gloomy and spooky, the perfect place for secrets and the black vestals, and every inch what she had expected knowing Harrowhark.

The food is sadly terrible (it explains so many of Harrowhark’s eating habits or rather, her complete lack of any appetite at all). It is terribly dark, with night lasting for days, and the honored room she is given still has a narrow musty, lumpy cot, but—

The greatest thing about Drearbruh is that although she is Her Divine Highness, Gideon Gaius Prime, and the black vestals of the Ninth House do bow to her, she is afforded only a normal amount of respect.

Instead, Harrowhark is the one who is hailed and genuflected to with all the reverence that a returning god would bring, with her old, ancient, tottering retainer Crux nearly bursting into tears when the Reverend Daughter steps down from the shuttle, and he even  _ kisses the hem of her robe. _

It kind of makes sense—Harrowhark is the entire reason that the Ninth has managed to stumble along as long as it has after her parents offed themselves, even if they don’t actually know-know that. And they do know that after she went off to the First House and managed to get herself engaged, aid arrived with bio-pods and medical supplies and people woken up from cyrogenesis to breathe some new life into the Ninth.

The newbie black vestals are the ones that grovel as soon as she shows up, sadly, but with Crux barking at them and kicking them into shape, maybe soon they’ll only do that to Harrowhark, who takes it with all the sepulchral graces her station gives her.

Harrowhark is well-pleased with everything Gideon the First set up, even flashing a tiny smile at Gideon (if she kind of wants to swoon, that’s both completely her own business and completely normal for two people who are about to  _ get married  _ in about a week), and although she is busy with all the secret and dark processes that a Ninth wedding apparently entails and complains whenever Gideon drags her away to force some food in her, she doesn’t actually summon up a skeleton or something to prevent her from doing so, so she probably doesn’t mind.

Meanwhile, Gideon has found an unexpected ally in Ortus for creating a new Ninth wedding tradition, even if he is sadly not amused by some of her dirtier ideas.

“We do not have such puerile magazines here on the Ninth,” he says, his tone nearly as cold and dark as Harrowhark’s, impressively.

Gideon shrugs, “Well, I mean, I brought some, and I’m willing to sacrifice to the cause.”

Ortus’ eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, “You—you’re about to be  _ married  _ to the  _ Reverend Daughter  _ and you bring such filth with you—”

“Hey, they’re quality magazines, thank you very much! And I thought I might surprise Harrow with them—I’m pretty sure she hasn’t seen them before, and it’s not like you guys have anything like a bachelorette party,” Gideon sniffs.

“I do not want to know what that is,” Ortus huffs, crossing his arms.

“This is why you’re all so repressed,” Gideon informs him cheerfully, suppressing the urge to scratch at her cheek (the facepaint still itches, but it had been worth it to see Harrow’s surprised and pleased expression that she had managed to get it right). “Still, I guess these flimsy flowers attached to bones will have to do.”

Ortus eyes the bundle of bones she had produced to stick the paper flowers he had made on top of them. “…if you toss that at the Master Warden or his cavalier, are you sure you will not cause any damage to them?”

“As if Cam would ever let a projectile come within a foot of Palamedes,” Gideon scoffs, hefting the bundle in her hands a bit. “If she doesn’t smack it out of the air with her knives right after it leaves my hands, she’ll have really been getting into the bubbly. Or whatever the equivalent of champagne is around here.”

Ortus looks mournfully at the bundle in her hands. “We do not have anything like champagne,” he sighs sadly. “And even if we did, I do not believe my mother would allow me to drink it.”

“Ortus, you’re like what—thirty-something? You need to start standing up to her,” Gideon says authoritatively despite being completely cowed by both A.L. and her father.

(To be fair, one was someone who had breathed life into her, while the other terrified all the other Lyctors and even sometimes her father.

It’s why her father gets called her father while Gideon the First, is just Gideon the First, even if Gideon the First arguably contributed more gene-wise and effort-wise to her.

It’s whatever, though.

Do as I say, not as I do right?

Besides, Ortus’ mother, while probably terrifying to Ortus in some way, was clearly not the same as the Undying Emperor or his immortal bodyguard.)

“…easier said than done,” Ortus replies, a mulish expression on his painted face.

“Probably,” Gideon agrees. “Still—you’d like to visit the Fifth someday I bet, right?”

Ortus’ gloomy face brightens, “Yes! That would be grand—although unlikely, even with Lady Pent’s kind invitation—”

“You cover for us when the time comes, and I will make sure a shuttle from the First comes to take you there,” Gideon promises. “I’ll even get Gideon the First to personally see you there if you’re afraid of your mother and Crux.”

“…thank you,” Ortus says slowly, his brow furrowed. “That is a very generous offer.”

“Well, you are my soon-to-be wife’s cavalier.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to be covering for?”

“Wellllll—we might be wanting an extended honeymoon, you know,” Gideon says, scratching her cheek. “See the sights, kick some ass, probably lots of banging—”

Ortus holds up a hand, “I definitely do not need to know about that. …I doubt you are telling me everything, but the Reverend Daughter probably knows what she is doing. I hope.”

“And think of all the poetry you could read and write on the Fifth,” Gideon wheedles. “And how nice it’ll be to once again be somewhere your mother couldn’t follow you to.”

“…I will need to pack all my volumes of the Noniad,” Ortus says, a glimmer of excitement in his voice, “Lady Pent said she was looking forward to reading all of it.”

“Pack away! Gideon the First can definitely help you carry all of them into the shuttle,” Gideon says cheerfully.

Aiglamene stumps in at that point, looks at the bundle of bones and paper flowers in Gideon’s hand, and sighs. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for Your Highness to kick Ortus into shape.”

“I mean, I could start now?” Gideon offers, rising to her feet as Ortus looks distinctly ill at ease.

“No, as much as I would like to see that, the shuttle from the First House has arrived, your Highness,” Aiglamene says.

“Oh cool, where did you guys put A.L.?”

“The First has not yet arrived,” Aiglamene replies. “Neither have the Saint of Patience nor the rest—it appears it is just the Saint of Joy.”

“Mercymorn?” Gideon pulls a face. “Well—alright I guess, I can go greet her. Don’t listen to her complaints though—even if you managed to stick her in the pinnacle of luxury, she’d still manage to find something to complain about.”

“I will endeavor to keep that in mind,” Aiglamene replies dryly, “I left her with Sister Glaurica since I thought she’d appreciate having someone from her own House.”

“Wow Aiglamene—one day I just  _ hope  _ I can pull off such a devastating tactic like that,” Gideon says admiringly.

She thinks she can make out the faintest quiver at the corner of Aiglamene’s lips. “Your Highness is too kind.”

“Well, if Harrow asks, tell her I’m stuck with Mercymorn for now, and that I’ll be up to see her when it’s done,” Gideon sighs. “God, I hope Mercymorn didn’t get it in her head to give me the talk—she never remembers how old I am.”

“As long as you know how everything is supposed to work,” Aiglamene shrugs as Ortus looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Oh yeah, A.L. made me sit down in the Sixth House and got one of the Nireid instructors to give me the lecture, so I’m all set,” Gideon says cheerfully. “You’d be amazed how kinky those librarians can get…oh hey, they also write erotic poetry, so if you ever want some tips, Ortus—”

“Your Highness, I would rather die,” Ortus says stiffly.

“Suit yourself—it’s pretty great, though,” Gideon waves as she trudges off to see Mercymorn. “Well—better go make sure Mercymorn isn’t attempting to overthrow the Ninth in favor of an Eighth House takeover—I’m surprised she even came, I thought she hated the Ninth…”

\--

One second she’s greeting Mercymorn, and then in the next stricken second, she’s slowly waking up in the dark, her temples throbbing.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Mercymorn’s clinical voice sounds, somewhere behind her.

Gideon turns her head slowly and peers around. It appears they’re somewhere—underground maybe, on some kind of platform in the midst of what looks kind of like black, roiling acid, and they’re in front of some kind of sealed door.

The whole place smells musty and old, as though they’re the first people who have been here in a long time, and it’s as still as a tomb in here—

(Wait.

….no, no, couldn’t be right?

They might not even be on the Ninth anymore, although either ways, she has  _ no idea  _ what Mercymorn is trying to pull here.)

“…what the  _ fuck,  _ Mercymorn,” she manages to croak out, trying to pull herself up only to find that she is  _ chained down.  _ “What—what the  _ everloving fuck  _ are you  _ doing,  _ Mercymorn?”

“I originally wanted to keep you unconscious for all of this, but sadly, it appears the thanergetic bloom won’t quite have as much of an oomph unless you’re awake,” Mercymorn says simply, stepping into view as she finishes drawing some kind of mean looking theorem on the ground and starts working on the door.

Gideon jerks at the chains, but they hold firm.

(Thanergetic bloom—

She may not be a necromancer, but she really doesn’t like the sound of that.)

“Where are we?” she demands instead, glancing around at the bones covering the walls, and the black-robed skeletons that are surrounding them. “Is this—is this the  _ fucking Tomb? _ ”

Mercymorn glances back at her, pushing some of her rosy hair back. “Huh—Cytherea always said you were smarter than you looked. I never believed her, but I guess there’s some truth to that.”

“So what’s your plan here—are you—am I here just to be  _ bait _ ?” Gideon demands, starting to babble away in her panic (what the fuck, what the fuck,  _ what the fuck _ ) “Am I like a—a distraction or something for when you manage to roll away rock that’s never supposed to be rolled away and the god-killing monster comes out? I mean—I’m good, Mercymorn, but even I don’t think I can stop something that my dad couldn’t even kill and stuck inside here—”

“As if I would rely on you for that,” Mercymorn sniffs as she finishes whatever theorem she is drawing out and settles in a crouch next to Gideon, drawing out a wickedly sharp knife (ohhhhhh shit, she doesn’t like the look of this at all). “You’re here to fulfil the mess you made of things 19 years ago.”

Gideon looks at her blankly, “…19 years ago, I was a baby. Mercymorn, have you forgotten how old I am again—”

Mercymorn’s hand twitches, and Gideon feels her throat start to swell. “I am  _ very well aware  _ of  _ exactly  _ how old you are, Gideon—you are the ever-living reminder of my plans thwarted by Gideon the First and overthrown by that  _ monster.” _

Gideon frowns, her throat starting to go back to normal. “…A.L. deciding to combine her genes with Gideon’s and then ask my dad to bring me to life as some kind of super-baby heir counts as thwarting your plans? Uh—is this some kind of weird love triangle thing going on, because I really thought A.L. and Gideon weren’t ever part of your guys’ weirdo relations—”

“I wouldn’t touch Alecto with a ten foot pole,” Mercymorn snaps, her face screwed up in distaste. “I wouldn’t touch her if she was the last  _ person in the universe _ —I don’t even  _ understand  _ how Gideon could agree to combine his genes with her—it must have been some kind of messed up payback for that mess with Wake—although I suppose he didn’t figure out  _ all  _ of it, or else Augustine and I wouldn’t still be here…”

(…what?

That sounded vaguely as if—Augustine and her had been plotting together?

But Augustine and Mercymorn  _ despised  _ each other—like yeah, maybe they’d hatesex each other, but she would have laughed her head off at the idea that the two of them could work together on  _ anything. _

Then again, it sounded as if whatever it was they had been working on together hadn’t actually succeeded.

Maybe.

Also more importantly at the moment—what did that have to do with why Mercymorn looked as if she was about to cut her throat?)

“I have zero idea what you’re talking about,” Gideon says frankly, attempting to scoot back. “But whatever it is—look Mercymorn, I know you don’t like me, but I can  _ definitely  _ try to talk to my father and A.L. about—whatever it is you want with this Tomb—”

“I want this Tomb to  _ open  _ so we can finally have some  _ allies _ ,” Mercymorn says, her eyes gleaming disturbingly. “I want this Tomb to open so I can finally see what it was about Anastasia and Samael that made John so disturbed that he sent Alecto to imprison them here. I want this Tomb to open so someone can finally stand up to John and make him see reason about all the  _ shit _ his little vendetta has led us to.”

(That’s a lot to digest.

And no time to really think about it now, because the fucking knife is drawing closer—)

“What does all of that have to do with  _ me _ ?” she demands, frantically working at the cuffs behind her back. (They weren’t budging—)

“It’s a blood ward,” Mercymorn says, gesturing at the door. “Or—to be more specific and borrow Cassiopeia’s term for it, it’s a  _ cell  _ ward. Sadly, you don’t actually have any of John’s genes—but the spark of life he breathed into you should be enough to break it nonetheless. We just have to make the detonation and thanergetic bloom afterwards large enough.”

(Okay, well, that’s just peachy.

The cuffs on her arms are holding tight, but it seems like Mercymorn cheaped-out on the ones at her ankles, and Gideon has never been one to skip leg day.)

She kicks out, her foot missing Mercymorn by a hair's breadth as the Lyctor dodges and then catches her foot, giving her a slightly amused glance.

“Do you really think that’s going to work? You may be Alecto and Gideon’s spawn, but you don’t even have a  _ thousandth  _ of their abilities,” Mercymorn says.

“Yeah, but they at least taught me how to feint properly,” Gideon says as an enormous skeleton rises out of the waters behind them and crashes into Mercymorn, while another one clambers up the platform, smashes Gideon’s chains (ow—it catches part of her ankle a bit and makes her bleed, but finesse isn’t really the point right now anyway), scoops her up, and starts running towards the entrance.

“How did you know I was there?” Harrowhark yells on the shoulder of her construct as they hear detonations and smashing sounds from the chamber behind them.

“You make a very distinctive clinking sound,” Gideon points out, her heart soaring despite the fact that Mercymorn is probably going to come smashing after them in seconds (she actually came to save her—) “It’s all the bones you have on you.”

Harrowhark’s mouth purses in a little moue of annoyance as she nods to where a hilt is stuck into the side of the skeleton. “I brought you your sword.”

“Oh my god, I’m in love—I’d ask you to marry me again, if we weren’t, you know,” Gideon says, sitting up and instantly pulling her sword out of the construct.

(The regenerating ash won’t do the blade many favors, but still—

Not only had Harrow come in to swooping to save her with a literal princess carry—with a skeleton construct, but then again, necromancer arms are spindly and can’t even lift things heavier than books—she had even brought her  _ her sword. _

She’s pretty sure this is one of the plots of some trashy novel she’s read before.)

Harrowhark ducks her head before she says, “…maybe after we escape the Saint of Joy. Does she happen to have any weaknesses you know about?”

“I mean, she’s easy to get mad, but that’s not going to help us here. Also she and Augustine hate each other—but apparently that’s not true either, so—maybe our best bet is to just hold out until A.L. or one of the other Lyctors arrive?” Gideon suggests, bringing her sword out in front of her.

Harrowhark’s face looks grim. “The Seventh House saint already tried to kill us.”

“ _ Cytherea _ ?” Gideon goggles at Harrowhark. “What—do you mean  _ everyone  _ is in on this?”

“The only guests from the First House that I feel are safe at this point may be Alecto the First and the Saint of Duty,” Harrowhark says grimly. “Although I feel that Alecto the First’s delay may be due to the Saint of Patience.”

“That’s not good, Augustine is tricky—but wait—how did you manage to get away from Cytherea in the first place?” Gideon demands.

“The Master Warden and his cavalier worked with me to hold her off initially—and then the Saint of Duty arrived,” Harrowhark explains. “He seemed to be able to keep her occupied, so—I went for you.”

“I’m glad you did,” Gideon beams at her.

Harrowhark’s eyes widen, then she coughs and says, “…well, can’t have you dying here and opening the Tomb—that’s the entire point of the Ninth, after all. Do you have some kind of communicator to get Alecto the First here faster?”

“No. Usually I don’t need it because she’s always somehow around,” Gideon replies honestly.

Harrowhark purses her mouth, “Well—we’ll just have to make do until she arrives then. The Master Warden has managed to set up some wards—”

One second they’re hurtling forward on a massive skeleton construct, the next second it’s all dissolved away, and Mercymorn is standing there before them, rapier and net in hand, and her face twisted in rage.

Harrowhark immediately tries to throw up a bone shield. Mercymorn just smashes it with her rapier as she flicks her net out to catch Gideon mid-swing, wrenching it down to the ground.

Gideon just barely manages to catch her step, standing in front of Harrowhark with her broadsword in both her hands as Harrowhark somehow manages to bring up even more skeletal constructs, blood coating her nose and upper lip, and she thinks she can make out some blood mixed with sweat coming from her forehead.

(Shit. Not good.

Harrowhark can and will literally make regenerating bone constructs until she passes out, but Mercymorn’s whole thing is that she can hit one point on a body and send everything reeling—

She’s really regretting not sparring with her more often now.)

Mercymorn’s nostrils flare as she glares hatefully at Gideon, “Those  _ eyes _ —I should have known—Wake actually  _ succeeded  _ all along—although why Gideon and Alecto kept you alive—why  _ John _ kept you alive when you’re proof of all his  _ lies _ —but perhaps he saw the benefits of having an heir after all—and with Alecto and Gideon  _ right there  _ to account for all your little features—I thought the timing suspect, but I would never have expected any of them to allow you to  _ live _ —”

Gideon has no idea what Mercymorn is ranting about now, but whatever keeps her distracted and not completely focused on attacking them has to count for something right now (like Gideon knows for a  _ fact  _ that Mercymorn could just reach out to end her right now—although maybe whatever ritual it is won’t allow for a slow death, and that’s not a good thought), so she opens her mouth and asks, “What lies?”

Mercymorn literally shrieks at that, slamming her rapier down so hard that Gideon is pushed back several steps. “Your blood  _ dissolved part of the fucking ward! _ ”

“Wasn’t that the whole fucking point of you bring me here?” Gideon demands, frantically trying to parry while Harrowhark is busy building up other skeletal constructs to slam into Mercymorn’s side.

“Without the ritual! Without— _ anything!  _ Breath of life—ha—John  _ knew  _ what he had with you—but he must have not known that Augustine and me were behind it or else Alecto should have already ripped us apart—but  _ why  _ keep  _ you _ ? Why keep  _ proof— _ it’s not like John to be soft—unless he had further plans for you and your blood.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, dad thinks I’m a fucking disappointment,” Gideon snaps out. “I’m not a necromancer—”

Mercymorn cackles, her laughter shrill and nearly deranged. “You should thank your lucky stars that you aren’t a necromancer—or maybe you should thank Wake, that hair—if it’s not from Gideon, then it must have been from  _ her.  _ She must have ended up using herself to produce you in the end. Anything for the cause, even using John’s sperm on herself—I should have  _ known— _ those  _ eyes  _ were a dead giveaway, but with Alecto taking credit—but she would have to if John wanted to continue the farce. Maybe he wanted to see what would happen? If you turned out to be a necromancer, who knows, maybe he could have consumed you for some extra thanagenetic oomph, and once you weren’t—I don’t know, maybe he just wanted to keep you around and see if you developed anything interesting later on besides his eyes.”

(What?

_ What the absolute fuck? _

Mercymorn’s crazy, she’s lost whatever marbles she possessed in the first place—there’s absolutely no way—

But if that’s the case, why  _ did  _ her blood undo the blood ward on its own?)

“All along he  _ lied  _ to us,” Mercymorn continues passionately, slamming her rapier against Harrowhark’s constructs and pulverizing them. “All along—Valancy, Pyrrha, Alfred,  _ Cristabel— _ none of them had to  _ die _ —and Anastasia and Samael, they must have figured it out, that’s why he locked them here—that’s fine, then I’ll take his daughter and make him  _ pay _ .”

Mercymorn’s net moves viper-fast, catching Gideon’s feet. There’s a  _ snap  _ as pain blooms at her ankle (oh man, there goes a lot of her mobility—), and she sees Harrowhark’s wide horrified eyes, her mouth already open to scream as Mercymorn’s blade drives down—

_ Clang. _

A.L.’s pitted blade catches and throws Mercymorn’s rapier back, and A.L. herself cracks her neck as she stares at Mercymorn.

“You—you—where’s  _ Augustine? _ ” Mercymorn shrieks, all color draining from her face.

“Still in the River where he tried to dump me,” A.L says with a shrug, “He tried to throw me pretty deep. Didn’t help.”

“…we thought it was a long shot anyway,” Mercymorn says finally, brandishing her rapier in front of him. “I didn’t think he could hold you as long as he did—stupid Augustine, always puffing himself up to the end.”

“He may survive,” A.L. says in a detached voice.

“Even if he does, John will order all our deaths—do you think he’ll send you, or will he prefer a more personal touch? Surely as the first Saints, we deserve a little personal attention given that he’s  _ lied to us for millenia upon millenia _ —and you have, too. You  _ knew _ ,” Mercymorn snarls, pointing her rapier at A.L.

A.L. looks unphased, her golden eyes hardening slightly. “I did,” she agrees. “But no one forced any of you to consume your cavaliers in the end.”

Mercymorn laughs, a mad, broken, high, skittering sound. “No one  _ forced  _ us—that’s right, no one did, and I have lived with that for ages and ages—but that’s rich coming from the woman who could have easily  _ told us  _ that there was a perfect Lyctorhood all along and that she was the  _ living embodiment of it _ .”

This is starting to head into necromantic territory that Gideon doesn’t fully understand, but Harrowhark’s eyes are intent on both of them, most of her face paint replaced by blood and sweat, struggling to raise another construct, and Gideon makes sure to edge herself in front of Harrowhark anyway.

(A.L. will probably be fine, but—

The Lyctors’ cavaliers have always been a taboo subject, and if it seemed that her dad—her real biological dad, it turns out, what the  _ fuck _ —had let them sacrifice them when all along there was a different way that didn’t need that—

Well no wonder Mercymorn looked as if she was losing her mind and ready to burn down everything.)

“It doesn’t always turn out well,” A.L. says, looking off into the distance. “I told John to tell all of you—and then I left, and when I came back, only half of you remained.”

“Except Anastasia and Samael,” Mercymorn snarls, jerking her offhand behind her. “I always thought that it was suspicious— _ perfect  _ laboratory conditions, and Anastasia somehow messed up the Eightfold Ward when I never did? No—she must have figured it out, and you two imprisoned her for it.”

“Would you rather that both of them had died?” A.L. asks, tilting her head. “That was John’s first thought—I had returned before he could attack Samael though, so the entire process went through. After that—very hard to kill, a true Lyctor. So we placed them here—and I waited.”

Mercymorn’s hurricane eyes narrowed. “You—waited? …that’s why you kept the girl, that’s why you must have convinced John to let her live—you want to overthrow him and crown yourself as Empress Undying!”

“Wrong,” A.L. says simply.

Mercymorn’s expression twists. “Don’t try to deceive me  _ now  _ Alecto—we’ve been through so much already, and why else would you keep a twisted failure of an experiment that is utterly useless trash—”

And before Gideon can even blink, A.L. is behind Mercymorn, and Mercymorn—is gasping at her throat torn out, gurgling blood and trying to heal as A.L. slams her head against the ground and just— _ tears her head off. _

(It’s not the first dead body Gideon has seen—she’s been on battlefields before—and it’s not even the first time she’s seen someone die, but it’s—

It’s very different seeing someone you’ve known for so long get killed so viciously, even if they had been about to sacrifice you in some bloody necromantic ritual.

She might be about to hurl.)

“You’re bleeding,” A.L. says, crouching down near where she’s doubled over. Her hands are red with gore, and her face is spattered with it, but A.L. seems to be in no hurry to fix that.

“Yeah, I’m bleeding A.L.—that’s what happens when a Lyctor goes fucking batshit  _ insane  _ and wants to sacrifice me in some kind of painful ritual to open up the Tomb that should never be opened except surprise, surprise—she doesn’t need the ritual! Because it turns out, dad is  _ really  _ my dad, and my mom is—is someone called  _ Wake  _ maybe?”

A.L. doesn’t even blink. “I told you before that I wasn’t your mother.”

“No shit, A.L.! What the hell—what the  _ fuck? _ !”

(Is this what shock feels like?

She just—

It’s a lot, and she doesn’t know how she feels about it, and Harrow is also here—

Oh god,  _ Harrow is right there. _ )

She manages to turn her head around to see Harrowhark still at her side, awkwardly hanging there, reaching out to tentatively pat her back.

“We—we should probably head back and see if Palamedes and Camilla have held out alright—with the Saint of Duty there, I suppose it might be fine—”

“They are fine,” A.L. interrupts Harrowhark. “I made sure of it.”

Gideon lets out a hysterical giggle (oh god, she really is losing it now). “Did you pull off Cytherea’s head too?”

“Just her arm,” A.L. replies, a slight furrow appearing on her smooth, flawless forehead. “Gideon the First could subdue her after that.”

“Great! So at least dad still has two Lyctors standing I guess—although do you count as one, too? As the ‘perfect’ Lyctor? Maybe you can like have a competition or something…” Gideon trails off, then promptly vomits on the ground.

(Well—great.

It’s not like Harrow didn’t already know how much of a mess she was—

How could anyone want to be with her after hearing all  _ this _ ?)

A.L. props her up and then slings her over her back in a fireman’s carry. “The Master Warden has some medical knowledge, he can see to you.”

“Why bother?” Gideon asks as A.L. starts walking and Harrowhark hurries to follow them, waving a hand to brush aside all the shattered bone around them. “Didn’t you—didn’t you just keep me to—I don’t know—some kind of  _ safeguard  _ against the Tomb?”

A.L. stops, then walks over to the side to prop Gideon up against the wall so that she can look her in the eye.

(Apparently not her eyes.

Her father’s eyes.

….yeah, she can’t even figure out how she feels about that.)

“Do you know what happens if John is killed?” A.L. asks tonelessly.

“Uh—bad things?”

A.L. nods. “Dominicus will turn into a black hole and wipe out all Nine Houses. Mercymorn and Augstine’s plan was always a short-sighted one—what I was waiting for was a way to end him without destroying our universe with it. And for that, I needed allies.”

“…you wanted those in the Tomb,” Harrowhark says slowly, her face pale.

A.L. nods again. “Correct.”

“So—you decided to keep me as a—a key?” Gideon just barely manages to choke out. “Is—is that all I was?”

(She’s not even sure which part of this she should be upset over first.

There’s—well of course there’s the big overall picture of her dad being, #1, her biological dad in reality, and #2, a potentially evil overlord? But that part she kind of figured—the biological part is weird, she’d grant you, but it’s not  _ that  _ weird in the overall scheme of being conceived solely as some kind of biological weapon.

The biological weapon part is—terrible, but she had always thought A.L. and Gideon and her dad had decided to create her in order to do a really weird genetic experiment , so it’s nice to have confirmation of sorts, even if it makes her want to scream.

But she had always hoped in some fashion that—A.L. had kind of really,  _ really,  _ deep down wanted a kid. After all, even if her dad had ordered her to do it, A.L. hadn’t had to guard her so closely or train her to fight with a sword.

More fool her—apparently she had just wanted to keep her investment safe until it was the right time or something to open the Tomb.

She’s not going to cry—she’s  _ definitely _ not going to cry—)

“….at first, yes,” A.L. says slowly, reaching into her white robes, drawing out a handkerchief, and discreetly passing it to Gideon, only somewhat ruined by the bloody fingerprints she leaves over it. “Gideon the First thought you could be his, so we waited—but when you opened your eyes, I knew what had occurred. You not being a necromancer made convincing John to spare you and turn you into his heir easier, and then…”

She trails off, slightly frowning.

Gideon resentfully dabs at her eyes with the handkerchief as Harrowhark keeps a hand against her back, not moving, just there.

(It helps ground her a bit, even if she’s like 97% sure the wedding is off.

But like hell she’s going to say anything else—what is there to even say at this point?)

Harrowhark is also frowning, looking between Gideon then back at A.L. “…but if you just needed her to open the Tomb—could you not just take a vial of her blood?”

“Thanks Harrow,” Gideon snaps before she can help it. “Thanks for just reducing me down to a vial of blood—”

“I didn’t mean it that way!” Harrowhark interrupts, her dark eyes blazing. “I meant—there are a lot easier ways of opening up a blood ward than raising up a  _ child  _ and then training them into the  _ best cavalier of her generation _ !”

Gideon blinks, the sudden upwelling gratitude in her heart weirdly melding with her impending mental breakdown and kind of making her nauseous again. “Uh—thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Harrowhark says stiffly before turning again to A.L.

A.L. nods stiffly, her mouth actually twisted up into something of a grimace. “…it hasn’t been all bad. Raising you. Teaching you to fight. I’ve had a vial of your blood since you were four years old, but then you picked up that greatsword and begged me to teach you, and—I thought I’d see what you could do.”

“…to see if I was worth keeping around?”

A.L. shakes her head. “No.”

She doesn’t say anything more, but honestly, Gideon isn’t sure she can.

(A.L. was the First that her father resurrected, and if left some weird side-effects—or at least that’s how the story went.

Maybe what really went wrong was creating whatever weird necromantic bond that made her father the Emperor Undying and A.L.—

Mercymorn used to call her a monster, and Gideon would be lying if she didn’t know why.

A.L.—doesn’t do emotions the way a normal person does.

But this here—if Gideon can somehow manage to shove back her own panic and sense of crisis for a second—combined with everything else A.L. has done throughout her life—

Maybe not everything is a lie.)

“…you agreed to stand for me at my wedding,” Gideon says softly.

A.L. nods, unblinking. “I wanted to.”

“You took me with you to the Sixth.”

“I didn’t trust you being in the First House without me,” A.L. says simply.

“You could have let Mercymorn kill me to open the Tomb—you and her had the same goals,” Gideon points out.

“We do not, and I could not have let her do that,” A.L. disagrees sharply.

(Maybe in her own strange way, A.L. does love her.)

“…you always said you weren’t my mother, but I’ve always felt like—felt like as though you  _ were _ in most of the ways that counted,” Gideon says slowly, stumbling over her words. “That—hasn’t changed.”

A.L.’s head jerks up to look at her, and for a blinding second—

A.L. actually  _ smiles _ .

It’s barely a twitch, but Gideon sees it, and she can feel her eyes stinging again.

A.L. simply puts her over her back again and starts carrying her back to the entrance. “We need to get you back for the ceremonies.”

“Yes,” Harrowhark agrees, following behind them. “Crux will be dismayed that some of his preparations will have to be redone, but I’m sure he’ll be able to fix it in time.”

Gideon blinks at her. “The wedding…is still on?”

“Yes,” Harrowhark replies, looking at her uncertainly. “Unless—unless you don’t want it to be?”

“Of course I do!” Gideon rushes out, “I really—I really want to get married to you, I just—you know who I really am now. Do you still want to marry  _ me _ ?”

Harrowhark sniffs and looks away, her cheeks flushed pink (it’s so great that her face-paint isn’t in the way anymore—although the not so great aspect is that she’s absolutely covered in her own blood, but anyway). “Of course I do. You’re still Griddle. Nothing has changed.”

“Are you sure about that because I’m pretty sure you heard the part about A.L. here wanting to somehow overthrow my dad.”

Harrowhark frowns, drawing in a deep breath and looking between the two of them. “…I do not pretend to understand the workings of God and his Hands. All I can say is—I am glad you are not dead, Gideon. And—no matter exactly who your parents are,  _ you  _ have not changed in any fundamental way. I swore to you one flesh, one end, and the Ninth House keeps its vows.”

( _ Oh. _

Well that’s—)

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Gideon finds herself blurting out.

Harrowhark turns  _ bright red  _ to the roots of her short, dark hair, so it’s worth it even if Gideon feels as though her face is on fire, and A.L. clicks her tongue to set her down again, backing up and pointedly turning around so that her back is facing them.

“Whenever you two are done, let me know.”

“Do—do you really mean that?” Harrowhark stammers, twisting her hands together.

“Um—uh—I didn’t mean to blurt it out just like that, but uh—yeah?” Gideon attempts to prop herself up a little higher, letting out a tiny laugh. “I mean—we’re about to be  _ married _ —it’s not that weird that I want to kiss you, even if I wasn’t totally gone on you—and I am really,  _ really  _ gone on you, Harrow—I’m a total  _ weenie  _ over you, I didn’t need to pretend that—even  _ Pal  _ can tell—and—and—and—”

“Shut up Gideon, you talk too much,” Harrowhark says thickly, crouching down. “Even when I thought you were a guard—there was just something about you—well? Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

Gideon eagerly leans forward, and even though there’s the copper taste of blood in her mouth, it’s bliss as her lips press against Harrowhark’s.

(She’s kissed other girls before, but it’s never felt like this.

Even if Harrowhark is a bit stiff, hesitantly copying Gideon’s movements, it’s still—

She can’t  _ wait  _ until they get married.)

“There you guys are—seriously? I don’t even know why we were even worried,” Camilla’s exasperated voice floats over.

Palamedes chuckles. “Well, I suppose it’s nice.”

“They can save it for the wedding.”

There’s a cough, and Gideon the First says, “Your Highness. Your guests are arriving.”

Gideon reluctantly moves away from Harrowhark, looking over Harrowhark’s head as her fiancée hides her warm face in Gideon’s robes. “Uh—yeah. Hey guys! Glad to see you all still alive!’

Camilla rolls her eyes while Palamedes manages to keep her propped up, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we can tell.”

“The more important question really is—what are you going to do about the Tomb, Reverend Daughter?” Palamedes asks, ignoring Gideon’s squawk of protest about what counts as the most important question here.

Both A.L. and Gideon the First turn to look at them then, their faces as impassive as ever.

Harrowhark looks up, her face serious and she bites her lip. “…the job of my House is to keep Watch over it and pray that it never opens, but if the stone is rolled away regardless of our efforts—that was never part of our duty.”

Gideon frowns at that. “Are you—are you saying that—what you’re willing to let the Ninth House become some kind of base for A.L.?”

“If you want it to be,” Harrowhark shrugs, “You are about to marry in after all. As for the rest of what that entails—I do have some questions for Alecto the First.”

A.L. turns a bit to look Harrowhark in the eye. “Speak.”

“Even before the Saint of Joy figured out that there is some other form of ‘true Lyctorhood,’ she wanted to kill God. Why? And why do you?”

(Well, she certainly doesn’t mince words.

Gideon kind of wants to know, too.)

A.L.’s eyes grow a little distant. “I am not clear on everyone’s various motivations. However for myself—we are the ghosts of Old Earth reborn to walk among bones and death, and some would think that is worth what John did to achieve all this. But this pursuit of other planets, of conquering out an Empire, of forcing others to become like us—even if they descended from those who abandoned us, it’s not worth it.”

“…then that’s why you kept forbidding me to join the Cohort?” Gideon asks.

A.L. looks at her, her golden eyes gleaming. “You were meant for more than that,” she says quietly.

“And after you open the Tomb and release whoever is inside—you expect them to follow you?” Harrowhark asks doubtfully.

“We talked to Anastasia and Samael before putting them to sleep and locking them inside,” A.L. says, gesturing towards Gideon the First. “They know what it means if I wake them up now.”

“And what has changed in these long millennia?” Harrowhark demands. “Why now?”

A sharp, terrifying smile emerges on A.L.’s face. “The Blood of Eden is stronger than ever, and after combing the Sixth—I have found a way to ensure John’s death without Dominicus being destroyed as well.”

(Well. That’s disconcerting.

Is she really okay with this?

He’s her father after all—

But that’s always been a weirdly distant notion, and—and ultimately, it comes down to the fact that out of everyone in the First House, she has always trusted A.L. the most.

Also she has always known that her father has had all sorts of dark secrets, but it had never occurred to her that he would have lied about something as horrifying as Lyctorhood.

That’s just an asshole move.)

Harrowhark glances at Palamedes who is busy cleaning his glasses, and her eyes narrow. “You aren’t surprised at all,” she accuses him.

Palamedes sets his glasses back on. “I have had my suspicions,” he admits.

“So—you guys are all down with this?” Gideon prompts. “A coup d’etat?”

“100%,” Palamedes replies, his beautiful gleaming with his resolve.

Camilla shrugs. “I go where the Warden goes.”

Harrowhark is still frowning, but then she glances over at Gideon, and says slowly, “…it feels like heresy to me, but—I cannot say that after today’s escapades and revelations, I am not reevaluating my understanding of God. So—I will not stand in your way, and—give me time to think things through. But in the end, you are mine, and I am yours.”

(There’s something so hot about how portentous Harrow sounds normally, and now adding in love confessions too—

It’s  _ lethal. _ )

Gideon’s pretty sure she has the dopiest expression on her face right now. “I’m so lucky that I get to marry you.”

Harrowhark’s face is red, but she tosses her head back arrogantly all the same. “Of course you are. And—I am very lucky as well.”

Gideon reaches out to grasp Harrowhark’s hand and brings it up to kick the back of it. Camilla’s rolling her eyes so hard they might fall out of their sockets, Palamedes is grinning and patting her back (and are they holding hands too??? Oooooh, she needs to pump Cam for details later), Gideon the First’s eyes flicker brown for a quick second as he smiles before flickering back to green (weird), and A.L. is as impassive as ever, but she still helps Gideon stand and carries her all the way to the out, Gideon’s hand still linked with Harrowhark’s the whole time.

(The future may be uncertain but—

Gideon has everyone by her side, and she’s about to be  _ married _ .

They’ll figure it all out together.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like the twist of Anastasia and Samael being the ones in the Tomb in this universe? (So who founded the Ninth--um, well either Anastasia did right before getting banished, or A.L. did? She probably has some necromancy with her link to John after all) Did you like Gideon and Harrow officially getting together? How was Ortus off to the side (ahahaha, I loved writing poor Ortus). What did you think of Gideon's and A.L.'s relationship? Was the Mercy fight interesting? (In every universe, Harrow and Gideon have to fight a full-blown lyctor, and apparently someone is always getting their arm torn off while Cytherea is around). Please leave comments/kudos!


End file.
